


Sir Guerin and the Green Knight

by MayGlenn



Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019), Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
Genre: Alcohol, Alex and Maria Marriage of Convenience, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, And they both fall in love with Michael, Archery, Arthurian Mythology in-jokes, Beheading Game, Blood and Injury, Bonus Plots Stolen From Robin Hood and A Knight's Tale, Christmas Party, Disguise, Drunken Flirting, F/F, Flirting, Hunting, I got my PhD in Medieval Literature for this moment, Jousting, Kissing Games, Literally just the plot of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight with RNM characters, M/M, Magic, Malexa endgame, Quests, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24852286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: Since the siege and the assault upon the planet had ceased, the royals alighted on Antar, razed and rebuilt it. The Three returned then to Earth, established a realm in Roswell and ruled it well.Or, at least Max did.Isobel helped.Michael was just...Michael. He was doing his best.
Relationships: Isobel Evans/Rosa Ortecho (background), Maria DeLuca & Alex Manes, Maria DeLuca/Michael Guerin, Maria DeLuca/Michael Guerin/Alex Manes, Max Evans/Liz Ortecho (background), Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 46
Kudos: 36





	1. Fitt 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [mythras_fire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythras_fire) for beta-reading this!
> 
> Also check out [this great cover art by JoCarthage](https://jocarthage.tumblr.com/post/626748145969332224/ive-been-enjoying-reading-maeglinthebold)!!!!!

Since the siege and the assault upon the planet had ceased, the royals alighted on Antar, razed and rebuilt it. The Three returned then to Earth, established a realm in Roswell and ruled it well. 

Or, at least Max did. 

Isobel helped. 

Michael was just...Michael. He was doing his best. 

...

Isobel threw great Christmas parties. Queen Liz was decidedly _not_ into party planning or even going to parties, so the King’s sister, who was in charge of most matters of diplomacy, anyway, having negotiated the treaty in the War, planned every royal celebration. She handled the menu, the venue, the seating, as well as the decorations, the drinks, the games, all of it. There were hunts, jousts, and spectacles for both the humans and the aliens of the court to enjoy. When things got just a little too cutesy, Rosa usually stepped in and dirtied it up enough to keep it fun, which was why they made such a great team (and such a great couple). 

Michael sat with his siblings and their wives on the high dias, just back from a joust where he’d been put on his back enough times he could almost remember what it was like to not be single. 

“Well, that was fun,” he told the Queen, the only person he really liked to talk to at these things, and only because she was about as bored as he was. 

“You don’t have to joust if you’re not having fun,” Liz told him. “I don’t.” 

“Bold of you to think I’m not having fun losing,” Michael pointed out, pouring himself a drink of whatever bubbly brew Isobel had set out for them. “Please tell me my brother has seen his marvel already, I’m starving.” 

Because King Max had one drinking game, and he was such a _square_ otherwise (and, you know, the King), that everyone just had to play along. And the drinking game was that dinner wasn’t served until the court had been treated to some spectacle or tale of something new and wondrous. Oh, there were snacks (Isobel had reprised the bacon-wrapped cheese-stuffed dates from last year, and holy shitballs those were good) and there was plenty of drink, and Max never started to eat until even the least of his servants were seated and eating already, too, but on Christmas Eve he had to see something new and amazing, first. 

(One year and one year only, they’d gotten away with getting him so wasted that he thought Michael had developed mind-influencing powers like Isobel, when really they were just both hangry and conning him.) 

“No luck,” Liz sighed. “I was really hoping my latest regeneration potion would be ready by now, but I’m still testing it.” 

“I’ll let you test it on me in front of the court if we can just eat,” Michael moaned dramatically. 

Liz laughed. “Michael, no! What if the side effects are that it shrinks your dick?” 

“Oh, yeah, like I’m using it a lot,” Michael laughed, and then sat up, looking around. “Oh, God, don’t tell Izzy or Rosa I said that. They keep trying to set me up with people.”

“I still haven’t heard about the last one.”

“Well, turns out Steph he had an on-again-off-again with Sir Kyle...” 

“Isn’t that who just—”

“Stopped short of murdering me in the lists only because I’m the King’s brother? Yes. Yes, it was.” 

“Oh my _God_ , Michael,” Liz laughed, though she was also trying to sound sympathetic. 

“Yeah.” Michael grabbed an apple slice from the table and dunked it in the dip that was provided. “Oh, wow. Oh, that’s good.” 

He sat forward on his elbows to eat more of the tart green apples and some sort of delicious dip. God, he needed to get out of Roswell, if the best thing to happen to him at Christmas was a fruit platter. 

“Tell me about it,” Liz said, squirming slightly. “The shapewear required for this dress is not conducive to stuffing my face before dinner even starts.”

“You look good. It’s a nice dress,” Michael commented. “It’s very...uh. Red.” 

Liz snorted. “No wonder you need help, Guerin.” 

“Shut up. Your Highness,” Michael said, trying to drown his ennui in apples and dip. 

…

“Well, your marvel’s on its way,” Isobel said, cornering Max and Michael by the punch fountain where Bert was trying to bob for apples (Bert had been the Christmas Eve marvel three years prior, when he turned into a fucking werewolf once the sun went down. Unfortunately, that kind of marvel only counted once). 

Max looked at Isobel like he was a little bit drunk and she had given him a puppy. “Great! I love marvels! Wait. Why don’t you look excited about that?” 

“Because a fucking _Fae_ is on its way here! It’s huge and scary-looking and is probably going to wreck the place!” 

“I’m sorry, _what_ ?” Michael demanded, eyes flashing. He looked around for his knights and officers. “Why the _fuck_ wasn’t I notified?” 

It wasn’t like a general had a lot to do in the _Pax Maximus_ when their borders were so secure, so he felt like a jackass now. He had _one_ job. “Who told you this? Where are my people?” 

“He teleported through our gate, Michael, there wasn’t any way to stop him, but he hasn’t drawn weapons. Might be a messenger. A really huge, fuck-off, green messenger.” 

“I’m not letting him get close enough to find out,” Michael said, and with a look he shuttered all the windows telekinetically, and, closing his eyes, summoned his sword to him from across the hall. 

People gasped at this display, the festivities ceasing. Liz was giving them a significant look from the table. 

“Wait, did you say _green_?” Michael asked, as though he had just heard her, but he shook his head. He ordered Max and Isobel back to their table, and they scrambled to obey. 

As knights assembled themselves in the hall, weapons at the ready, Michael directed them to stand in front of their king and queen, while he headed to the front doors. He could see the Fae now, fucking huge and yes, genuinely fucking _green_ , from head to toe, and Michael quickened his pace as more knights and ladies, even those in their finery, drew weapons to line the hall. 

Michael wished he would have gotten further, met the Fae outside, but as it was they met at the door. 

“Stop!” he barked. “State your business with the King of Roswell or consider your life forfeit.” 

He was at least eight feet tall, with long green hair that was plaited back from his face. His long beard was braided, too. His clothes were green, richly embroidered, and though he was huge, he wasn’t bulky, but was lithe, with a swimmer’s body. If it wasn’t so fucking scary to have a Fae in here, who could probably teleport past him and decapitate Max any time it wanted before anyone could react, Michael might have thought he was kind of hot. 

“I wish to speak to the leader of this gathering,” the green man said, in a booming voice, looking over Michael to where Max sat. 

“Hi, excuse me, no one gets to the King except through me. You’ll state your business first,” Michael insisted. 

The green knight considered him with one eyebrow raised. “Am I not marvelous enough for you?” 

For a split-second, Michael thought he was being _flirted_ with, and then Max spoke behind him, reminding him he was squaring off with an enemy:

“I am King Max. Speak your piece, stranger. You may approach. You may even join us, if you like, for our Christmas meal. You have certainly presented us a marvel.” 

Michael shot Max a glare. How was he going to protect him if he just let strangers walk in like this? But he stepped aside and let the man pass, though he followed closely.

“King Max, I am here to propose a challenge to your court. Any challenger who dares to meet me in single combat will get one swing at me with this.” The green knight drew a huge battleaxe he was carrying—also green—and Michael flinched, but he just dropped it. It clanged on the stone floor with hardly a bounce. “And in a year and a day, they must meet me in my own kingdom, in my own court. I have heard of the bravery and resilience of your people, King Max, you Antarans, but I wanted to see it for myself.” 

“Oh, no, no, no,” Michael said, stepping in between them. “Nobody’s playing that game here, okay? We know how that ends. He’s gonna pick his head up off the floor and walk out of here—no, no. You, sir, can leave—” 

The green knight raised an eyebrow. “If I have no challenger, then shall I play it with your king?” 

And suddenly the green knight was just _there_ , jumping right past the line of guards to the table with them, and he was sitting in Michael's _seat_. Max held still, but Isobel screamed and fucking Liz and Rosa both drew weapons and stood up—you really couldn't beat humans for stupid bravery, no matter how hard Michael tried—and Michael's stomach dropped. "Or the King’s sister? I am not leaving without a challenger." 

Michael didn’t think about what he said next, ready to dial it up to eleven immediately just to get him to step away from the round table. Anything to keep Isobel and Max safe.

"Fine, I accept the challenge, you psychopath," Michael said in a loud, clear, and contractually binding voice. 

“Michael!” Max and Isobel cried, surprised. Liz was the only one who sounded stern when she said, “Michael, don’t.” 

But the green knight was back to looming over him instead, and Michael actually relaxed, as it meant he had pulled the danger away from them. 

“This is my job,” he told them. “To protect you.” 

“She said you’d be easy to convince,” the green knight whispered to him, the voice floating down to him as Michael looked the guy right in the nipples. 

“She?” 

“The one who sent me,” the knight said, and as Michael’s mind began to race over who would want to challenge Max’s court like this, the green knight turned and bowed to the dias. “Thank you for the challenger, Sire. And just to show your court I mean no great harm to it, I will suggest an addendum to the challenge: that we rule out beheading. Just a challenge of bravery, and you pledge a limb to it.” 

Michael laughed. 

“Oh, _just_ a limb. Cool, cool, cool. Wasn’t using any of those, like, every day. Hey, don’t suppose you’ll let me pledge my dick? That one just keeps getting me into trouble,” he suggested, nerves making his humor crude. 

“I mean an arm or leg,” the green knight said, intentionally ignoring that comment. He stepped back, away from the green axe on the floor, and spread his limbs wide. “Take your pick, General Guerin. And in a year you’ll visit me in the Green Chapel, and stand before me unarmed, and you’ll let me take a swing at you.” 

Michael shrugged, reaching for the green axe. 

“No!” Max said from his table, and he stood up. “In a year you return _here_. I demand to witness the exchange—”

“Oh, just so you can heal him again? What kind of test is that, really?” the green knight retorted, still holding his arms out to either side, and not looking away from Michael. “That wouldn’t be much of a pledge of bravery at all.” 

“My King, let me do this,” Michael said, communicating the rest with his mind: _I let a Faerie get all the way to the palace and it’s my only fucking job, so clearly I’m the weakest link here. This one’s mine._

Max sat down. 

Michael picked up the axe. It was double-bladed, unnecessarily huge, and heavy. Speaking of unnecessary, this _dude_ was huge. Lopping off an arm would require an over-the-head swing. He didn’t look like he was wearing a magic ring or anything crazy, so that probably wasn’t necessary. Maybe he should stick with a leg, even though they were the size of tree trunks. Michael ran his thumb across the blade, testing its sharpness. He could probably shave with it.

“Alright, man,” Michael said, squaring off with a few practice swings. “One swing? Legs or arms? You wanna pick?” 

“I think it should be up to the guy holding the axe,” the green knight said, voice calm and easy, almost like he’d be smiling, if he were the kind of guy who smiled, ever. 

“I want to remind you I am only doing this under extreme duress,” Michael murmured, staring at the two meaty thighs. “I’d rather be a lover than a fighter. Wanna tell me who sent you?”

“Stop stalling.” 

Michael met the knight’s green eyes, and choked up on the axe, and swung. 

The onlookers gasped. The knight’s right leg came free of his body as easily as anything, and Michael deeply suspected that the axe itself was magic, except that when he looked up, the knight wasn’t bleeding, and was actually hopping around a bit to stay upright on the one leg. 

“Can I have my axe back, please?” the knight asked, unbothered. Michael was so dumbfounded that he handed the axe right back, so that the knight could lean on it. 

“I knew it,” Michael said, as the green knight, using the axe as a crutch, picked his leg up off the floor. “These games are always rigged.”

“But not always rigged the way you think,” the knight told Michael, speaking softly, like he wanted only Michael to hear him. “You’ll find me at the Green Chapel, in a year.” 

Then the knight turned and bowed, a little unsteadily, to Max and Liz. “Enjoy your meal, King Max, Queen Liz. Happy holidays, everyone.” 

…

“Oh, of course he’s a ‘happy holidays’ kind of bitch,” Isobel was complaining when Michael sunk into his seat, which was still vaguely warm from a stranger sitting in it. “We’re _obviously_ celebrating Christmas here. I didn’t spend three days perfecting the giant Christmas tree outside so we’d look—”

“Izzy, shut up,” Rosa said, and luckily, that worked. 

“Michael, _what did you do_ ,” Liz said quietly, as Michael reached towards her for the gravy, but gave up halfway through the motion. He wasn’t hungry. 

“My job,” he said, but didn’t sound sure about that. His heart was still pounding, even though the danger was past and wouldn’t come around again for a year. “Guess Max has a year to teach me his healing powers.” 

Max only looked wistful, or earnest, or whatever his vaguely proud pained look meant. 

“Or I have a year to come up with a regeneration serum,” Liz said, looking like she wanted to get up from the table immediately and go to her lab. God, Michael loved her. “We’re going to figure this out, Michael.” 

“Sounds great,” Michael said.

…

Once the panic passed, Michael actually felt better than he had before the probable death sentence. 

He had a year, after all, and he at least looked like he had done his job in front of the whole court, so people didn’t consider him quite so useless anymore. He had a border to secure and knights to train so they didn’t have another security breach like that again. 

He even got a few casual dates with several notable ladies of the court, like he had an expiration date now and people wanted to get some Guerin while the getting was good. 

He felt similarly, actually, so it worked out. 

And Liz worked hard on her regeneration potion, and Max was too nice to him for a whole year. It was sickening after a week. Isobel was just the same, which was refreshing. He trained with Max, trying to hone his powers so he could heal himself, but they didn’t get much further than paper cuts, and if healing a paper cut made him hurl, he dreaded to think what trying to reattach a limb would do. 

By the time Isobel was putting up the Christmas decorations the next year, Michael started looking at maps. 

“Best guess is it’s in El Paso,” Rosa said. “Most obvious suspect for a liminal space with a portal to the fucking Faerie realm. Is it New Mexico? Is it Texas? Is it Mexico? Is it a big city? Is it a shithole? Maybe it’s all of the above!” 

Michael was brushing down his horse, who was being such a good girl and didn’t know the horrors Michael was about to subject her to. Fucking El Paso. 

“You know, maybe if you don’t find the place, maybe you get out of the deal,” Rosa suggested. “I mean, it’s not like the guy left a forwarding address. You shouldn’t be on the hook for finding him just so he can kill you.” 

“Come on, Rosa, please. _Permanently maim_ , not kill, let’s get it right.” 

Rosa grinned. As the only other member of the court who battled demons of her own (with and because of her dabbling in dark sorcery), she was the only one who truly appreciated his humor. 

…

In spite of trying to sneak off quietly early in the morning, and in spite of not quite going to his death, the whole court came out to see him off like he was never coming back again. 

Max gave him a hug, and Liz kissed his cheek. 

“Be safe,” she told him. “Come back to us. I’m regrowing hearts and things so just—stay alive. We’ll figure it out.” 

Michael grinned. “You _want_ me to lose a limb just so you can frankenscience it back on, don’t you?” 

Liz slugged him in the arm, which wasn’t very becoming for a queen, but Michael appreciated it. He bowed, and then looked up and around. 

“What, Izzy couldn’t manage to see me off?” 

Max frowned. “She didn’t want to make a scene.” 

“Come on, I was counting on her showing up to make it all about her!” Michael laughed, and knocked down the visor on his helmet just in case his face was giving away how much he’d miss her if he never saw her again. He’d miss all these assholes, honestly. 

“Come on, Gringa,” he said, nudging his white horse towards the trail due east. “Let’s go.” 

Max rushed forward, grabbing his horse’s reins. “I can’t let you go through with this, Michael. What do you think you’re going to do?” 

Michael shrugged. “Try.” 


	2. Fitt 2

El Paso was a shithole, it turned out. 

Michael was going to have to survive this just to report back to Rosa, for sure. It was dusty and hot and there was nothing to look at but monastery after ugly monastery, ooh, except there’s a church, and a cathedral, and an abbey, and a priory, and, for variety, a nunnery. All gaudy ugly things, and everywhere peasants slaving away for scraps. 

_ You seeing this? _ Michael wanted to ask God, but didn’t bother. 

How was he going to find a Green Chapel in this hellhole literally made up of religious buildings? No one, it seemed, had heard of it, not the least peasant or the fattest friar. 

Michael rubbed his face and drank some of his precious water. It was the middle of December and still miserably hot here—and he thought Roswell was bad. He’d fought two chupacabras and a gryphon on his way here, and now he really wanted a place to get horizontal, and really didn’t want to have to go into a church to do it. Gringa, too, was giving him business, though she didn’t exactly want to stop anywhere around here, either. 

“Maybe we could give up and die?” Michael suggested. “They can’t get mad that we don’t fulfill our part of the deal if we die, right?” 

Gringa whinnied and tossed her head, leaning him to the right. 

“No, wait, come on, I think I see a cliff we can throw ourselves off of right over here...” Michael tried, laughing at his own jokes because no one was around to make fun of him for it. He patted the mare’s neck and let her go to the right. “Okay, girl. Whatcha smell?” 

They stepped in between an enormous yucca and some sagebrush to see a pleasant little stream leading to a large moat, which surrounded a huge fuckoff castle. It was picturesque, almost cute, for all it was well-fortified, and perhaps not that big, upon closer inspection, but sizeable in the idyllic little landscape. The peasants here looked well-fed and cared for, and Michael heard active chatter of people and livestock. 

Okay, this place was going to have proper lodgings. 

“Good girl,” he told his horse. 

The drawbridge was already down, as there seemed to be some sort of delightful holiday market underway, with merchants and buyers and screaming little kids fighting each other with swords out on a green. Fat guards nodded at him as he passed, and he remained unaccosted. 

The only person who acknowledged him appeared to be some kind of porter coming from the main tower. “My Lord, you are welcome here.” 

“I am Sir Michael Guerin of Roswell, and I seek shelter for me and stabling for my horse for the night,” Michael said. “Can you tell me who is the Master here?” 

“My Lord Alex Manes and My Lady Maria DeLuca govern this keep, my lord,” the porter said, bowing low. I am sure you will be welcome here, as long as you would like to stay.” 

Michael, relieved at his luck, dismounted, allowing Gringa to be led away to be given a brushing down and fresh hay. 

The porter led him into a great hall and then a side-chamber, where there was food and wine and a basin of water for washing set out. 

“You are just in time for our Christmas festivities, my Lord Sir Guerin,” the porter said. “You may refresh yourself and I will inform the Lord and Lady of your arrival.” 

“Thanks,” Michael said, so tired he didn’t even question the royal treatment. He tried to remember if Max’s kingdom had strong allies in El Paso? But Isobel did the diplomacy stuff, so he came up blank. Manes and DeLuca. He didn’t recognize those names. What was the name of this place, even?

Surprisingly, Michael wasn’t kept waiting long. He had barely enough time to wash his face and hands and nibble politely on some grapes when a man who was presumably the Lord of the house strode right on in, leaving the Lady on his arm behind as he rushed forward to greet him with surprising enthusiasm. Michael was being shaken by the hand before he got a good look at either of them—nope, still nothing jogged his memory—and decided that they were a handsome couple, indeed. Both of them young, dark of skin and hair, obviously human, except that there was something perhaps fae about the lady’s eyes. They were richly but not gaudily dressed in fashions that said they were quite at ease in their home and felt fabulous about it: Lord Manes in dark blue and Lady DeLuca in deep purple. 

When Michael tried to bow, they stopped him. 

“Sir Michael Guerin of Roswell, you are most welcome here,” Lord Manes said heartily. “I am Sir Alex Manes, and this is my wife, Lady Maria DeLuca.” 

“We have heard so much about you and King Max’s realm in Roswell. It is an honor to have such a visitor,” Lady DeLuca said. Her husband had not yet let go of Michael’s hand, but she hadn’t let go of the other yet, either. “Will you be staying with us long?” 

“Alas,” Michael said, and wondered where the fuck he got ‘alas’ from. He was not an ‘alas’ kind of guy, as a rule. “I am on a...um...quest—”  _ this sounded so stupid aloud— _ “I’m looking for the Green Chapel and the green knight who lives there. Have you ever heard of such a place?” 

This made both of them drop his hands, and look at each other. 

“Why, yes, but—but why would you want to go there?” the Lady asked. 

“It is quite nearby,” the Lord said, “though perilous.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s what I’m after,” Michael said with a sigh, at once relieved and disappointed to have found what he was searching for so easily. “So if you don’t mind the imposition, my Lord and Lady, if you could lodge me for the night I’ll be on my way in the morning. I need to be there by Christmas Day.” 

“First of all,” the Lady said, and here she touched his arm again, overly-familiar, but not in a way Michael disliked. “Please call me Maria, and my husband Alex.”

Michael grinned wryly at the test: “As you wish,  _ Lady  _ Maria.”

“And second of all,” Alex continued, like they shared a brain, “you must stay with us until Christmas Day. The Green Chapel is less than three hours’ ride from here. You could leave early on Christmas and reach it before noon.” 

“Yes, stay with us,” Maria echoed. “We don’t get many visitors, and unless you want to be early for your...what business is it you said you had at the Green Chapel?” 

“Uh,” Michael said, because there was no cool way to say ‘Because I need to go there to let a giant Faerie take a swing at me and hey incidentally if I drag my limbless body back here can you guys just ship me back to Roswell, NM? Would that be an imposition? I’ll even pre-pay shipping.’ Instead he bowed his head. “I ride to a test, Lady Maria. The honor of the court of Roswell depends on it.” 

“Well, if it’s a test you must pass, then all the more reason you must stay with us, and be well-rested and well-fed before you go,” Lord Alex declared, and clapped his hands. 

Servants appeared at the doorway. “See that Sir Guerin is lodged well. Bathe him and freshly clothe him, show him to the best guest room,” Alex ordered. 

Michael tried to protest, but he was led away by the well-meaning but pushy servants, two of whom were a pair of old crones who looked like they governed the servants and could either be really cool about that or really fucking scary. His personal politics aside, and how he didn’t exactly agree with such a thing as a ruling class  _ anyway _ , Michael usually made it a point to be very polite to servants, not just because they were in charge of feeding him and clothing him, but because they could make every part of his life hellish even if he was technically the one with the political power. Also, these two looked vaguely familiar, like strict governesses or schoolteachers, one of them fairer of hue and the other one darker, though Michael couldn’t actually place them. 

“These rooms are very finely furnished, I think I can manage...” Michael began, but the two ladies ignored him. 

“Nonsense,” the fair one said. 

Michael realized quickly that they were possibly more than head servants, perhaps lesser nobility themselves, as they did none of the work but ordered other servants about. The two old women did not name themselves, but the fair one asked him to remove his clothes for a bath. The dark one cackled a little at this, crone-like, and Michael wasn’t usually embarrassed about his body or being naked in front of others, but something about this was at once too familiar and not removed enough. 

“Just get in the bath,” the dark one said. “We won’t bite. The Master and Mistress asked us to take very good care of you.” 

Michael swallowed and put up no fuss as he was led into a bath.

The fair old woman handed him a glass of watered-down wine. “We pride ourselves on taking care of our guests. Name a desire and we will provide it for you.” 

Michael laughed nervously. His only desire was to  _ not _ have to meet the Green Knight in four days and, well, he wouldn’t mind some damn privacy in the meantime, but whatever. “Thank you for your kindness, but I’m quite—” 

The other old woman appeared with a tray of sliced apples and fresh cheese. “Please forgive the humble fare. You’ll be served better at the table tonight.” 

Michael’s stomach betrayed him by grumbling, though he could have waited for dinner. “Thank you, these are—” he tried one, and actually moaned, “oh, wow, that’s like, the best apple I’ve ever had. And I eat a lot of apples.” 

“You flatter us, Sir Guerin.” 

“Michael, please, madam. Can you tell me anything about—” he meant to ask about the Green Knight, the man he was due to fight, but he found himself more curious about his hosts. He knew everything he needed to know about the Green Knight: he was a huge fuck-off green dude who was going to murder him. “What can you tell me about the lord and lady of the castle?”

“Do you want the rumors or the truth?” The dark one asked with a gleam in her eye, as she set out fresh clothes for him to wear and took his clothes away. 

Michael stopped her, hoping to get her to leave his own clothes, and grinned at her conspiratorially, feeling like she was the kind of old lady you wanted to sit next to at parties because she always had the best gossip. “Are the rumors any good?” 

“Of course not, they’re wicked,” she replied, absolutely living up to the gossip stereotype. Michael loved her right now. 

“That sounds good to me,” Michael said, leaning in. “I’m sure you’ve heard the wicked stories of Sir Michael Guerin, even here.” 

“Oh, no, Sir Guerin,” the fair one said, dumping water over his head and beginning to wash his hair for him. In the commotion, the dark one got away with his clothes. “We have only heard of Sir Guerin’s great courtesy and skill in love.” 

Michael guffawed. “You’re kidding me.” 

Sure, maybe, if pressed, what guy wouldn’t admit to “skill” in love, but  _ courtesy _ ? What kind of outright lies was Isobel selling as diplomacy to other kingdoms? 

“We hope the rumors about you are truer than the rumors about our lord and lady,” the dark old woman said, returning, having spirited away his clothes. 

“And what rumors were these, again?” 

“That the lord and lady love each other very much, but do not share the sacred marriage bed.” 

Michael reared back, possibly also because the fair old woman was combing his hair roughly. “Er. That’s an oddly specific rumor.” 

They seemed to get along well enough...chaste marriages weren’t that uncommon, he supposed, especially in a kingdom with so many goddamned churches. 

“The rumors about you are specific, too. It’s whispered far and wide that Sir Michael Guerin the Good is the most courteous and noble lover and among the greatest knights in the world. Some call him the Ladies’ Knight, and others call him a Knight’s knight—”

“Uh, excuse me?” Michael replied, at quite a high volume. Was that a sex thing?

“Oh, have we offended?” 

“No! No, uh, I mean, I just—you must have the wrong guy. That, uh, that really doesn’t sound like me.” 

What it sounded like was a lot to live up to. Sir Guerin the Good, that was fucking rich! Michael didn’t have time for that. He was dying in four days, or at best losing a limb that he wasn’t going to be able to just pop back on his body.

“Ah, what humility! We must add that to the rumors as well.” 

Michael sighed and rubbed his face. “Don’t you have any wicked rumors about me? It’s only fair.” 

“Oh, plenty,” the old women said: he couldn’t tell which one was talking because he still had his face in his hands. “They say you’re a homewrecker, a love-taker, and that you value vengeance over mercy in battle.” 

Well, that at least sounded more like him, though Michael wasn’t proud of it. He’d done some pretty rough stuff in the war; anything to protect his family. But homewrecker? He’d dated  _ one  _ chick who still had a boyfriend, and only according to the boyfriend! But whatever, at least that was  _ more  _ his speed. More than this Sir Guerin the Good nonsense. 

“Well, maybe it’s better that you call me Michael the Mediocre, then,” Michael replied, wiping soap out of his eyes and grinning at the two old ladies. “It’s probably more accurate.” 

The two old women looked at each other slyly, and then looked at him. For the first time, Michael began to suspect that they were lovers themselves, two little old lesbians who ran the castle, and he decided he liked them even more. “As you wish, Sir Michael.” 

…

The good news about the court of Lord Manes and Lady DeLuca was that these people knew how to  _ drink _ . 

“You’re kidding me, this has alcohol in it?” Michael asked, leaning dangerously far across the table towards the Lady Maria, who was seated at the left hand of Sir Alex. Michael held the place of honor at Alex’s right, and the two older ladies sat beside them, too: the fair one to Michael’s right and the dark one to Maria’s left. They hadn’t yet given their names, and Maria and Alex only called them “my ladies.” 

“It’s my wife’s own recipe,” Sir Alex bragged, laying a hand over hers, making Maria seem to blush. 

“Our estate is known for our wines, beers, and spirits, Sir Guerin—” 

“Michael,  _ please _ ,” Michael begged. 

“Sir Michael, of course,” she corrected with a little headshake that made her massive earrings catch the light. “And I’m afraid we go overboard around the holidays. Try this one—”

“Lady  _ Maria _ !” Michael protested. His face was red, not just because of the alcohol. If they wanted Sir Guerin the Womanizer, well, he wasn’t going to have to pretend with Lady Maria. “I have three drinks right here already! Please, have mercy!” 

“I’m afraid she is a lady quite without mercy, Sir Michael,” Alex said, laying a hand over Michael’s wrist in a way that tingled, piquing Michael’s interest—though that could have been the alcohol. “As most beautiful women are.” 

The old woman sitting beside Maria touched her hair like she was primping and agreed, “I know, right?” which sent the whole table into stitches: this seemed to be an in-joke of some kind, and aside from being old, Michael didn’t think the statement needed to be so ironic as to be table-slappingly funny, but, well, he kind of had a thing for cougars, and maybe he was alone in that sentiment. 

(Maybe not  _ alone _ , as the fair old woman watched her like they liked very much enjoyed being merciless to each other.)

So Michael had to taste test four drinks before dinner: a red wine, a white wine, a wheat beer, and a mead—this last one had been so sweet and tart and crisp it tasted of the freshest apples, and Michael  _ knew  _ his apples, okay, and if he hadn’t already been sitting, this drink alone might have laid him out. He couldn’t help but keep asking for more until he was sharing literally his entire life story and probably state secrets with these beautiful people. Michael just thought they were all beautiful, even the dudes, even the old ladies, but especially Lady DeLuca, like, wow. 

The worst part was, he really wasn’t sure he was hiding it? 

And, even worse, he was really sure no one cared. Alex cared least of all. 

As Michael slowly sobered up over dinner, he got slightly more worried about his behavior—courteous, no—lecherous, fucking slavering, yes, but courteous, not by a long shot—but they responded by plying him with more drink. It seemed to be the custom here, and Michael was not accustomed to being out-drunk even by the old women, who were doing shots with some clear liquid he had never heard of. 

“This is how you drink it, Michael,” Maria said, forgetting the Sir, or leaving it off intentionally, and she jogged Alex’s elbow, who rolled up his sleeve like the most put-upon husband in the world. She poured five very small mugs up to the brim and instructed him thusly: “It’s not strictly noble behavior, but it is Christmas, so I hope you won’t think less of us. You moisten the back of your hand with the lime wedge, and apply a pinch of salt so that it sticks.” 

There was some laughter as salt in practice scattered everywhere, but it wasn’t like they hadn’t all made a mess already. 

“You’re going to lick the salt first, drink the spirit in one go, and then suck on the lime.” 

“So, it’s not a spirit you actually want to taste,” Michael laughed, making sure he was following this right. 

“Not this batch, it’s far too young. If you like, I’ll get you some aged—”

“No, no, no, God, no, please,” Michael laughed, already sweating. “This is my last one for the night.” 

“All right,” Maria said, watching everyone with sharp eyes, but especially Michael. “Here we go—salt—” Michael found himself distracted by Alex’s tongue of all tongues during this part, “—shot—” Michael was watching Maria’s throat as she threw her head back, before he followed suit, “—and then lime!” 

Antarans had weak stomachs as a rule, and that liquor roiled his stomach, but the lime soothed it immediately, and he laughed—not least because he stared around at a table of nobles wearing matching green smiles. Michael losing it caused another laughing fit to go around the table, and Michael actually had to cover his face and hold his breath to keep from laughing too hard or honestly just puking, but he managed to hold it together. He appeared to handle his shot only slightly better than the fair old woman, who complained loudly at her liegewoman and was  _ allowed  _ to do so, apparently, as Lady Maria snipped right back at her. 

Since they were between courses, Alex pushed himself back from the table, begging to be excused. Everyone at the table stood up until he motioned them back to their seats. “I’ll be right back. Do begin the next course without us.”

_ Us _ ? Michael was halfway back down, worried the room would start spinning if he stayed up too long, but he froze as Sir Alex addressed him: “Sir Michael? Will you walk with me?” 

“Ah,” Michael stammered, feeling immediately like he was in trouble, either from overdrinking or flirting with his host’s wife right in front of his face, or both, but Alex only smiled and offered him a hand up. 

“Of course, Lord Alex,” he said, and took his hand. He’d been thrown out of places for less, and it had been good while it lasted. 

But when they were out of the great hall, Alex leaned more heavily on him, and Michael gave him his arm as a support. 

“Are you alright? I thought I was the totally wasted one here,” Michael wondered nervously. 

“Are you going to lead me astray?” Alex asked softly, playfully. “I am alright. My leg usually acts up at this time of night.” 

“O-oh,” Michael stammered, trying to look the lord over. He was too young and too fit to have gout. Bad knees? He was completely taken aback, however, when the man led him to a small alcove with a roaring warm fire and two chairs, sat, and unlaced his leggings. “It’s a false leg. I lost it in the Antaran Wars, fighting alongside your armies, General Guerin.” 

Michael stared at a wooden stump, carved in the shape of a leg, affixed to Lord Alex below the knee by a series of buckles that traveled up his thigh. 

He cried out, and stood up, like it was his fault. “Sir Alex! You should have—Max would have—our King could heal you, even now, I’m sure. You must return with me.”

Alex waved a hand. “It’s an important memory for me, Sir Michael. My father turned traitor mid-battle, and this wound was from him before I slew him. I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to let it go. I can still get about, with only a little pain, and I can still enjoy my favorite pastime—hunting.” 

Alex began lacing up his hose again, and the injury all but disappeared, except that Michael knew what to look for now. 

“We—we should go hunting sometime, while I’m here,” Michael suggested, though he didn’t really know why. A consolation, because he felt sorry for him? He wasn’t seriously into hunting, himself. He did find he wanted to spend more time with Alex.

But Alex surprised him by laughing. “We absolutely should  _ not _ , Sir Michael. Not least because you should remain at your ease here before your quest, but also because I should like you to know me better first, so that you’ll forgive the monster I become out on a hunt. I am quite competitive.” 

Michael laughed in turn. “I do not think you could offend me, Sir Alex, I am so greatly in your debt I would rather put on antlers and have you chase me yourself than compete against you.” 

_ Weird _ . Not sure why  _ that  _ image popped into his head, but Michael was drunk enough to commit to it. 

Alex only smiled, and if he looked vaguely hungry at Michael’s suggestion, well, Michael was probably just influenced by the rumors the old woman had told him today. 

“We needn’t go that far,” Alex suggested. “But how about a little wager, anyway?” 

Michael’s laugh turned into a hiccup and he sat back, slouching in his chair. Oh, right, he was drunk, he would probably bet his firstborn on a horse race at this rate, that wasn’t fair. “What kind of a wager?” 

“Not a wager so much as an exchange,” Alex said easily. “I was planning on going hunting tomorrow. Everything I catch is yours, if in return you render unto me whatever you might catch tomorrow.” 

“My lord!” Michael laughed. “That seems pretty unfair. If I’m just staying at home, what am I going to catch? Do your people play poker for matchsticks? I’m pretty good at that.” 

“It’s a sort of law of surprise,” Alex suggested, leaning across the space between them, grinning. “My people are pretty gameful. I think it will be fairer than you think. And, who knows, I may catch nothing but rabbits and quail. Your matchsticks might be the better end of the deal!” 

Michael laughed, squirming in his seat. God, was this guy flirting with him? “You’re teasing me,” he said, “but yes, yes. I agree. Sounds fun!”

“Great!” Alex said, and got to his feet. “Let’s go back to the banquet, I’m sure the main course has been served.” 

“Just promise me there’s no more booze,” Michael laughed. 


	3. Fitt 3

The real miracle in this whole impossible situation was that Michael woke up without a hangover. Maybe God was saving the pain for three days from now. Or maybe this place was seriously magical. 

Michael got up to piss at daybreak, still drunk. Someone had set out some fresh cool water for him, and he drank it and watched out the window as men saddled horses and unleashed hounds for a hunt. Alex was there, sitting astride a dark, nimble charger, shouting orders. Michael watched him bend low to pet a beloved hound, and thought he understood why he liked hunting so much: let the horse be your legs, and you can run as fast and as far as you want. Michael ached for him, a little, but not quite with pity. It was...something else. 

Michael went back to bed. 

…

Michael woke more slowly the second time, immediately aware that there was someone in his room. Thinking at first it might be servants bringing him breakfast or fresh clothes, Michael let himself doze, until he realized that whoever was in his room was sitting on the edge of his bed. 

That was...interesting. 

“You’re pretending to be asleep,” the stranger said, and Michael realized with a start it was the lady of the house. 

“Lady Maria!” Michael yelped, tugging the covers up his body. He coughed. “My Lady, I’m sorry you caught me lazing in bed like this! Let me rise, and dress, and I am entirely at your service.” 

Maria didn’t move or take her eyes off him. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t wearing anything to bed, but she leaned in closer, like she wanted to check. Her dress was loose and gauzy and Michael found himself immediately obsessed with it, with imagining where her body curved beneath it. Flirty banter from last night came back to him all at once, _and_ the fact that she was married, and the fact that she and her husband were his hosts. Shit, he should not be thinking about this. Despite his spotty track record, he didn’t exactly _try_ to date people who were involved with someone else. 

“I’m afraid I’ve already caught you, and you’re at my mercy, Sir Michael,” Maria laughed, light and playful. “Don’t make me tie you to the bed.” 

Michael sat up, tenting his knees to disguise anything else tenting at just the thought of that. He grinned. “Well, with a promise like that, I absolutely submit myself to your mercy, milady.” 

If Michael had a way of flirting where he just took innuendos and made them explicit, he’d met his match with the Lady Maria, who looked as delighted as she was surprised by his reply and said, “Well we needn’t bother with the actual bondage, then, if you’ll be bound to me by word and deed.” 

“Lady, anything,” Michael said. God, he was _breathless_ , and grinning, and thinking to himself that her husband was away for the day and that they were alone in here and he was simultaneously thrilled and terrified by that. Michael was usually good at flirting his way out of trouble, but Lady Maria was as straightforward and outrageous as he was, and if she told him to get on his knees and start eating her out he would definitely rather do that than try to refuse, so, uh. Uh-oh. 

“Then for now, I would sit and talk with you,” she said, and Michael found he was actually disappointed that she had backed down. “We’ve heard so much about Sir Michael Guerin of Roswell, that you are the realm’s greatest lover and her greatest fighter. Such passion wrapped up in such a noble frame!”

“Noble?” Michael repeated, dumbfounded and blushing. Somehow that was the only part of her speech he could take issue with, though the others were arguably more of a stretch. “Y-you must have heard about someone else. Maybe my brother, King Max? His love for Queen Liz is legendary, and his prowess in battle is—” 

Maria stopped him, laying a hand on his knee. 

“I’m not here to talk about him. I’m here to talk about you,” she said firmly, holding his gaze, before she blinked and sat back. The moment she looked away Michael wondered what color her eyes were, whether they were somehow lighter than the rest of her would indicate, as his brain seemed to want to supply. Were they green? He wanted to look at them again. “But maybe you are not the Sir Guerin we have heard of. This Sir Guerin is courteous in love-talking, and clever, and will do anything to help a woman in need—”

“Now, hey—hey now,” Michael stammered. “Being clever, that _is_ a thing I do. And I’ll help anyone in need. I'm an equal-opportunity helper. Why, you got any handyman jobs you need done? Siege engine tune up, want me to take a look at your flying buttresses?”

“Ooh, perhaps. Do you lay pipe, as well?” Maria asked, with a wicked purse of her lips. 

Michael laughed, blushing. Okay, he had set himself up for that one. “Is that a euphemism, my lady?” 

“Ooh, you are wicked, sir!” Maria cackled, like she hadn’t heavily insinuated it first. “But you must call me Maria. We can’t sit here in our bedclothes and not address each other by our Christian names.” 

“I’m not sure I have a Christian anything,” Michael admitted. “But I will call you Lady Maria, if you agree to call me Michael.” 

“As in the Archangel? That sounds very Christian to me.” 

“You continue to praise me too highly, Lady Maria,” Michael begged. “It’s your own honor and goodness that makes you speak so generously, not any nobility of my own.” 

“I disagree. Because of your virtues I have seen and heard spoken of widely, if I could do this all over again, and was the loveliest and richest woman in the world,” she said, and Michael had a hard time not already imagining her as such, “and if I had my choice of husbands over again, I think I would choose you, Sir Michael.” 

Michael choked a little. “Uh. Hang on, you have _definitely_ already chosen better, I promise you. But as humble an offer as it is, I pledge myself to be your knight, Lady Maria, your servant, and that is all I can give.” 

Maria smiled. “Then it is enough, Sir Michael.” 

But as she stirred to get up, she looked almost sad, and Michael couldn’t handle seeing anyone, especially not a beautiful woman who was his hostess and who thought so kindly of him leaving _sad_. “My lady?” 

“I bid you good day, sir. I think _not_ Sir Guerin, after all.” 

“My Lady,” Michael said, vaguely panicky. Had he offended her? Was she just negging him? Did he care? Dear God, why did he care so much whether a married woman was into him? “Why do you doubt me?” 

“Because Sir Guerin would never have spoken so long with a lady without putting the moves on her.” 

“The...moves…?” 

Maria was grinning. “You _know_. Hinted or teased for a kiss. A girl could think you didn’t _like_ her!” 

“Lady Maria,” Michael said, staring into her eyes. They were brown, but when he looked away he forgot their color again. 

“Sir Michael,” Maria returned, staring back at him. 

“Would you grant me the honor of one kiss? I would not wish the lady of the house, my hostess, to think me impolite, and I came entirely without Christmas gifts.” 

Maria slid along the bedspread closer to him. He was staring at her lips, now, full and dark, as she leaned in, though she stopped, hovering just out of reach above him, her long hair spilling over her shoulders and rolling perfumed across his chest. “Am I giving you this kiss or are you giving me one?” 

Michael was pretty sure kisses didn’t work like that, but he smirked. “You’d better give one to me. Safer that way…” 

Maria giggled. “Yes, we’ve heard that, too.” 

Michael had been about to ask who ‘we’ was, and 'what' exactly they had heard, but then she was kissing him. 

…

Once Michael was finally allowed to rise, and was brought a change of clothes by the aged ladies of the house, he spent all day with Lady Maria and the wider court, playing games and listening to music and poetry and eating tasty food all day. 

He was actually getting a sizeable pile of coins from card games, thinking he’d have something decent to exchange with Lord Manes at the end of the day, when Lady Maria herself (he thought with the help of the old women cheating) cleaned him out in just a few hands. 

“You’re a _hustler_ , milady,” he said, leaning in and grinning at her. 

“I don’t lose,” she said. “It’s your fault for underestimating me, Sir Guerin.” 

He was saved from answering when a horn sounded at the gate, and Alex and his knights thundered in, to the baying of hounds. The meat had been field dressed, the dogs and his servants taking their due, before the Lord commanded the boars to be brought inside in bloody spectacle. 

“My lords and ladies,” he called to the entire hall, “here I have no less thirty, possibly as many as fifty feral hogs captured at the hunt today.” 

The audience applauded, and some laughed—okay, good, they had the same memes here as they did in Roswell, that was comforting—as Alex beckoned him closer to review the spoils. Michael blushed as he stepped into the center of the hall: he hadn’t expected the exchange to be so public, especially since he didn’t have anything to give, really. 

“Are you suitably impressed?” Alex asked, grinning almost stupidly, clearly excited about this. He didn’t seem like someone who was often this animated, but here he was flushed and panting, and didn’t seem to be limping at all. 

“My Lord, I am,” Michael confessed. “I haven’t seen a hunt this big from one afternoon in—well, ever!”

“And it’s all yours, to do with as you will, according to the terms of our agreement,” Alex said, actually bowing before him. 

It was embarrassing, to have a man of so high a rank, a man who was his host, a man whose wife Michael had kissed just this morning bowing before him, and before he knew what he was doing, Michael took his arm and drew him up. And then he was holding him, and he had really only won one thing today. 

“And so, too, what I have won inside this castle I give to you with as much good will,” he whispered, and licked his lips, and just grabbed Alex by the neck and laid one on him before he could chicken out. 

The court took this better than expected, actually hollering and cheering raucously, and Michael found himself almost giggling as he pulled away, because Alex was smiling, too. And, right, he had been hanging around a ton of women today, Alex didn’t have to know it was _his_ wife, unless she told him, right? 

“I, ah,” Michael coughed, “only wish it were better.” 

Oh, now why had he said it like _that_? Just tell him you wish you were a better kisser, why don’t you? Or maybe tell him you were holding back and you wish you’d gotten to second base with his wife? 

Alex was still smiling, and the crowd watched them with baited breath. “It would be even better, if you tell me where you got the kiss.” 

Michael laughed, very carefully did not look at Lady Maria, and said, “Hey, I’m not asking you where you got literally 30-50 feral hogs. Seriously, you counted them, you’re just being funny. How many are there?” 

Alex smiled wryly. “Thirty-one.” 

...

The meat was prepared immediately, and Michael of course shared it back with the court. There was enough for the whole castle to have their fill and even to have some smoked for Michael’s upcoming journey, though he tried to refuse it. It was hard to explain that he seriously would have no use for it in three days’ time. Maybe he could leave it behind, or stick it in some peasant’s Christmas stockings on the way out of town. He couldn’t enjoy boar jerky if he was dead. 

At any rate, it was impossible to worry about that now, because now Lady Maria brought out still more spirits for him to taste. Tonight she limited herself to a (different) rich red wine, a cider, and heavily spiked eggnog for dessert. Michael was plied for tasting notes until all he could say was “More cider, please! It’s so _appley_!” 

“It’s your choleric humor, I take it,” Maria said, pouring him a fresh goblet of the cider, “that makes you crave fresh fruits and cool foods.” 

“Well, but I also crave your company, and you are nothing but spicy, my Lady,” Michael replied, because why the fuck not? He’d kissed both husband and wife today, and he was pretty sure he _enjoyed_ it just as much both times, so tonight he was kind of _trying_ to get drunk. 

“Ooh!” said the old women together, and even Lord Manes laughed. 

“Here I had been about to peg you as excessively sanguine, Lord Michael, since you are such a great lover and have such red cheeks—” the table laughed again at that— “but now I think you must be quite choleric of temper to try to pick a fight with my wife.”

“No fight intended, for I meant it as a compliment,” Michael said, bowing so low his curls almost scraped the empty plates. “But if I have offended, would you accept a dance with me, Lady Maria? You’ll have many opportunities to take revenge on my feet.” 

“Be careful, Sir Guerin,” Maria said as she allowed Michael to help her up from her chair, “People might think you _like_ women stepping all over you.” 

But all the while he danced with her, Michael couldn’t take his eyes off how Alex watched them.

By the time they got back to the table, Michael had sobered up somewhat, but Alex was absolutely blotto. He leaned in close to Michael, giggling about something, tugging at his clothes as he slurred, “You know what would be great? Like, just sso fucking funny? If we made the same bet again today that we did for tomorrow. No, wait. Fuuuuuck! I mean the other way! Wouldn’t that be—that would just be stupid. _Soo_ stupid. We shouldn’t do it. We shouldn’t. But we could!” 

Michael grinned and let him lean on him: he wasn’t a model of sobriety right now, either. “Seriously? You think that was a fair trade today? I couldn’t possibly agree to that again, I’d be taking advantage of you—” this sent Alex into a fit of helpless giggles— “But, if you want to, sure…” 

“Hear that, everyone?” Alex shouted down the table, throwing his arms wide, and taking Maria’s hand as she laughed in delight, too. “Sir Guerin has agreed to the same pledge again tomorrow!” 

Down the table the court cheered, and Maria looked like the cat who got the cream. 

“Uh, should—” Michael tried, glancing away from her, “You sure you don’t want me to come with you? Might be a more even trade—”

“Nonsense! Who will keep the ladies of the court in good company if not Sir Guerin of Roswell?” Alex shouted, still giggling. 

Another cheer went up from the ladies of the entire court. Man, if he survived this—survived the drinking and partying, managed not to get murdered or thrown out for trying to bang a married woman and for seriously considering nailing her husband, too, _and_ survived the meeting with the Green Knight—he was never going to be single again, with all these takers. 

…

The next morning, Michael didn’t even hear Alex leave for the hunt, and if he slept late, he also laid abed awake longer than he should have, like he wanted to be stolen upon. 

When Lady Maria slipped into his bedroom, not even bothering with a robe over her nightdress this time, Michael didn’t quite expect it, but he wasn’t surprised, either. 

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Michael told her with a wry smile. “People are going to talk.” 

“With the way you kissed my husband last night?” Maria laughed. “ _That’s_ all people are talking about. And already you've forgotten what I taught you yesterday."

Michael sat up, the blankets pooling around his waist. "Forgotten? Milady, if you instructed me in such a way to please you and I've failed to do it, you must forgive me. Despite the rumors, conversations such as these are not my forte."

"Not with conversing, Sir Guerin, but with kissing. Now my husband and I have both instructed you, and we hoped you would know by now you could take kisses whenever you pleased from either of us."

"I could?" Michael surprised himself by blurting out, voice cracking and high. "I mean, of course I could _not_ , milady. Where I come from, we're taught that to use force or surprise or take such a thing without asking is the height of ignobility. I'd never be allowed to return."

"Oh? Now wouldn't that be a shame," Maria said, not at all sounding like it would be a shame. 

"Lady Maria," Michael begged, and he wasn't sure why he was begging except that he wanted nothing more than for this woman and her husband to never get tired of him and never make him leave. "Consider this a blanket invitation, for you to kiss me whenever you will."

"Ah," Maria hummed. "You could never presume so much, but you would ask me to do the same?"

Michael grinned, "Now you've got it."

Then Maria was kissing him. "You're an enigma, Sir Michael."

"Michael."

"Michael," she repeated, and then laughed lightly.

They spoke late into the morning, past the bell for breakfast, sustained by bantering with each other. If the Lady Maria seemed to be tempting him to do more than kiss her, she did it so subtly and skillfully that he could find no fault in her, and he deflected with equal courtesy, so that she was not offended by his rebuffs. It was only a barely-held sense of propriety kept Michael deflecting her increasingly obvious advances. He! Did! Not! Fuck! Married! Women! That was a basic but very firmly held belief. 

When she finally got up to go, she pressed against him once more, her face inches from his. “My husband definitely wouldn’t mind if we had a good time, you know. He has no interest in sharing a bed with me, but he loves me and wants me to be happy. And I want happiness for him that I cannot give him.” 

She looked like she was about to say more, but just leaned in to kiss him again, and then she was gone. 

…

“Baby, we did it!” Lord Alex cried as he burst into the hall with his men, striding into the hall in triumph. He was spattered with blood, and dressed in a green military uniform. 

Maria squealed and rushed to him, and she kissed him as Alex picked her up and spun her. 

“I cannot believe you raided Area 51!” 

“My brother got away.” 

“That doesn’t matter! You freed all those people!” 

Michael ran across the length of the hall to reach them. “You actually raided Area 51?” 

Alex nodded, bowing low. “The refugees are being escorted by my soldiers to whatever haven they wish—many of them electing to go to Roswell and swear fealty to King Max. I sent them in your name, Sir Guerin.” 

Michael lifted Alex up from his bow, breathless. “I can’t believe that you...Lord Manes, you…all those people, all those Antarans… We’ve been trying to get into Area 51 for...”

Alex placed a keycard into his palm. “The keys to the stronghold for you, Sir Michael.” 

Michael felt faint. “How can I repay you?” 

Alex grinned, flushed. “I believe all you have to do is honor your agreement. It’s been a stain upon my family’s honor for a long time, with my father and brother’s involvement—”

Michael grabbed him by the neck and pulled him into a kiss, throwing all of himself into it. All of his gratitude, all his amazement, and all of his tongue. 

Alex gasped, grinning as Michael released him. “Sir Michael—”

But Michael kissed him again, even more thoroughly and sensuously than before. “Two kisses was all I won today. We are even in terms of our agreement, Lord Manes, but I will work all my life to be deserving of the gift you’ve given me today, and I am sure I will never deserve it.” 

For the first time, Michael realized Alex’s arms had wound around him, too. He and Maria were both going to have to change for dinner, blood and sweat staining their clothes, now, too, but he hardly cared about that now. 

“On the contrary, Sir Michael, I consider myself fully compensated for today’s exploits.” Alex looked vaguely like he wanted to kiss Michael again, and he and Maria seemed to exchange a look. “Let us all ready for dinner. I could use a drink.” 

…

Michael held onto his panic until he reached his quarters. 

And then he immediately started packing his bags. 

God, he was in love with _both_ of them! Both halves of a married couple. He had to leave before he did something stupendously stupid.

“Where are you going?”

The two old women were there, like old crones, like old witches, vaguely threatening. But they didn't scare him, he had a _sister_. 

“Boo!” the dark one said. “You can’t leave! You’ll get no welcome from the Green Chapel.” 

“I’ll sleep on the ground. I’ll catch up with the refugees, sleep on the earth with them…” Michael rounded on them. “Please tell me he’s just like this with everyone. That the Lord and Lady of the house give every guest the special treatment…” 

The dark woman stood in front of the door, while the fair one started unpacking his bags, with frustrating calm. “Of course not. All the more reason you should stay. Our Lord and Lady have never been happier.” 

“You’d want to run out on them? After everything they’ve done for you? On Christmas?”

Michael paused at the window. People were singing carols in the hall. He could see Gringa in her stall, happily munching fresh hay. It was actively snowing outside. He just had to make it one more day. 

He _wanted_ to stay one more day. Possibly for the rest of his life. If he fell in love with them, he wasn’t sure he would be able to go to his death. Or go home. And meanwhile he’d tear their marriage and their perfect kingdom apart.

He sighed. The old women had already unpacked all his things. 

“One more day, Sir Michael,” the fair one said, and God, she looked really familiar. 

“Did I ever get your name, milady?” 

“Nope!” 

…

“I promise you’ll get to the Green Chapel on time,” Alex told him, topping off both their goblets of wine, because it was fucking Christmas and he liberated an alien concentration camp today. “You should take your ease here, amuse my wife and my court, and we’ll send you on your way as planned.”

“I can’t believe you trust me to remain here with so many lovely folk,” Michael teased, mostly to gauge his reaction. 

If Alex felt jealousy, he didn’t seem to express it. “I have tested you twice and find you trustworthy. What say we make it ‘third time’s the charm’ and exchange our winnings again tomorrow? A final time?” 

“You’re sure you won’t want me to come along with you?” Michael tried, feebly, like his brain and his penis were playing chess as he tried not to give in to what he desperately wanted to give in to. 

Maria put a hand on his arm. “Who will entertain me if you both go? Come on, let us enjoy ourselves while we have you here, because we’ll be miserable enough when you leave us.”

“Agreed,” Alex said, and the look he gave Michael had Michael already planning where he would drag Alex off to if the exchange ended up being something that involved no pants. 

“How can I argue with you?” Michael said breathlessly, and more wine was brought to toast the agreement. 

…

On the third morning Maria caught him actually sleeping. 

He hadn’t slept well at all, dreaming of the Green Knight, of getting lost on the way, or worse, finding the Green Chapel and of losing his head. Never seeing his sister or brother again. Never seeing Alex or Maria again. God, did he really have something he’d hate to lose now? Besides the opportunity to be a homewrecker? Wasn’t that what he was best at? 

So when he opened bleary eyes to find her already seated on the edge of his bed, Michael was disoriented and grumpy, meeting her smile with a frown. “My Lord Sir Guerin, how can you sleep? It’s a lovely morning!” 

Michael sat up, not caring how the blanket bunched around him, too warm, and he leaned forward to rub his face. “Ugh. I didn’t sleep well, I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Maria said, drawing back a little, confused, their little roleplay or whatever this was on pause. “Was it the bed? Can I get you anything? I know a few hangover remedies…”

“No—” Michael found himself taking her hand, and smiling at her so tenderly in this moment of weakness that, had she kissed him, he might never have been able to stop kissing her back, but she played fair. “No, despite all I’ve been drinking here, I’m definitely not hungover. You and your husband have been exemplary hosts, thank you. Just worried about tomorrow, that’s all.”

“You could stay, you know,” she offered, and she must have known or guessed the danger, because her eyes were shining. “Never go to the Green Chapel or return to Roswell. Stay with us. We would keep you as long as you wanted to stay.” 

“Milady, I made a promise. A promise to keep my family and my kingdom safe. I must go tomorrow, no matter the cost.” He realized he hadn’t let go of her hand through all of this, and he brought her fingers up to his mouth to kiss them. “No matter how much I should prefer to stay with you.” 

For the first time he looked at her gown, low-cut and too extravagant for this early in the morning to be accidental. Didn’t she know she didn’t need to seduce him? He was already seduced. In love with her and drawn inexorably to her husband, too. 

“Even if it cost you your life?” she asked, tears actively standing in her eyes, now, and she lifted his hands to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “I would rather you flee this land, Sir Michael, and leave me, if only I knew you were alive and safe. I could not live knowing you were dead.” 

“I mean, I probably won’t _die_ ,” Michael said, touching her face enough to brush away the tear that threatened to fall. “I’m sure you know more about the Green Chapel than me, but I pledged only an arm or a leg…”

“Only!” Maria exclaimed, and grabbed his arm, both arms, both shoulders, until she was shaking him. “Then you must not go! You must stay here. I’ll love you, we’ll both love you, please, Michael—”

Michael kissed her just to get some quiet, and then smirked. “Hey. You called me ‘Michael.’”

She frowned at him, drawing back, sensing she was being teased. “Do you have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? That must be it.” 

“No, I don’t have a girlfriend. I’ve never had a boyfriend, though I'm not against the idea.” He was grinning, sadly. “But I couldn’t stay. I wouldn’t saddle you with me, for either I’ll have all my limbs and not my honor, or I’ll be an honest, damaged man.” 

Maria looked unimpressed. “Don’t let my husband hear you talk like that.” 

Michael flushed. “You know what I mean.” 

Maria reached behind her neck and unclasped a heavy golden necklace, inset with a flower Michael didn’t recognize. “Then you must take this.” 

“Maria, I couldn’t—” 

“It will protect you,” she snapped. “It protected my mother, and it protects me. But you need it more than I. It will keep you from harm, for no injury or disease has any power over whoever wears this necklace.” 

She set the necklace in his hand, and he could feel the power in it. It was heavy with magic. He didn’t want to take it from her—but if it could protect him…

“Lady DeLuca, please, i-if you need this—” 

“Michael. If you’re going to the Green Chapel you need it more than I.” 

Michael sighed. Maybe he did. 

“Just don’t tell my husband. Don't submit it to the exchange. You must keep it.” 

Maybe he was a coward, after all. He nodded. And when she kissed him again, he let her. 

…

Alex returned from his hunt dejected himself, too dejected to notice the more somber mood from his wife and his guest, if not quite his court. 

“Well, all I found was this piece of a spacecraft. It might be Antaran?” he offered, tossing it onto the table. “It’s yours, but tell me you did better.” 

Aching with guilt, Michael poured everything into the kisses he “owed” his host. 

“Really?” Alex pressed, teasing. “That bad, huh?” 

“That good, actually.” Michael forced a grin and kissed him a third time. Not even the erotic thought of how near he might have come to exchanging sexual favors with his host after exchanging them with his wife could stir him, he was so upset at taking the necklace, keeping it, and not even telling Alex about it. 

Michael thought his hosts’ marriage had been so rock solid, even if they weren’t sleeping together. Now he really felt like a homewrecker, keeping a secret between them. Would it actually protect him? Would it be worth it? It was hard to tell when he felt so worthless. 

Maria even seemed gloomy where she sat, like she thought she had lost him for good. And maybe she had, if her necklace wasn’t up to the task. He wasn’t sure he’d be coming back, even if he did survive: it was too weird to be sought after at all, let alone by a married couple. Maybe they’d be better off if he never came back, which only made him feel like he was missing out, and like it was a fine time for Michael to develop a conscience. 

But Alex hadn’t let him go, was still holding him, smelling all sweaty and manly, and smiling at him. “Only teasing, of course. This junk I found is a poor exchange for three such wonderful kisses.” 

“Enough, please,” Michael laughed, squirming out of his arms because he was going to catch fire if he didn’t. “I think this will help me reconstruct an ancient escape pod, possibly from when my people first came to Earth. I thank you for it.” 

“Just make sure it doesn’t take you away again,” Maria said, tucking herself under Alex’s arm and giving Michael a sad sort of smile. 

…

This dinner was more extravagant than the other two combined, and if Michael drank in the hopes that he would still be feeling no pain tomorrow, who could blame him? It felt rather like a last meal, and Maria didn’t seem mad at him anymore, and Alex was just endlessly delighted with him, and the two old ladies went to bed early, as did most of the court, leaving them in a cuddle pile on some furs in front of the hearth, alone. 

“You must come back after your quest, Sir Michael,” Alex insisted. “So that we know you’re alright, first of all.”

“But if you really want to make my husband happy, you’ll stay until spring,” Maria pressed. “If you want to make me happy, you’ll help me keep at him until he takes us hunting with him.” 

Michael blushed and spluttered shyly. “Milady, please, I could not possibly impose upon you any longer. My liver can’t handle it.” 

“Coward,” Alex said, rather meanly, before he dissolved entirely into tipsy giggles. “Oh, please come back. I want to kiss you again. I want to watch you kiss my wife.”

Michael’s eyes got huge, and he almost launched himself off the pillow he had been lying on. He wasn’t drunk enough for this. “My lord—” 

“Well maybe I want to watch _you two_ kiss,” Maria said, as though she could one-up her husband. “Right now.” 

She rested her chin on her fist, waiting.

Michael stared back and forth between them. Maybe they both knew everything, told each other everything, and all this was just a game to them. Maybe he could just slot himself right in between them, complete the circuit like he belonged there, like he completed them. At least he could just kiss them both here, in the quiet, by the fire, where it was warm and inviting, and go to his death satisfied. 

Instead Michael stammered, scrambling to his feet. 

“I-I crave your pardon, Lord and Lady! Flattered as I am, I fear I could not stop at a kiss, nor have the courage to leave in the morning if I did.” He began backing away toward the stairs, bowing. “I thank you for your hospitality, but I must to bed so that I may depart early. Thank you, Lord Manes, thank you, Lady DeLuca, but I must depart. Good night, good night. Parting with you is—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

If Maria or Alex looked offended or hurt at this refusal—still polite, still honest, but throwing everything back in their faces somehow, as though he was just doing it to spite himself—Michael did not let himself see, because he turned away and fled to his room. 


	4. Fitt 4

After that little number, Michael couldn’t bring himself to face them again, so he left before it was light. He was up and dressing in the dark, before even a servant arrived to help him strap into his armor. 

He slipped the necklace on under his clothes, not thinking of how beautiful it was, how expensive it must be, and refusing to think about why Lady Maria DeLuca wore it—what she needed protection from. 

Michael took Gringa from her stall: she was well-fed and strong, breath fogging in the cold in anticipation of a good gallop. Michael thanked the stable hand he saw there, gave her a few coins for the trouble, and asked her to pass on his gratitude to the Lord and Lady for their hospitality. He saddled and bridled the horse himself, slung his bags over her back, and mounted quickly, feeling like he would be caught at any moment, and if caught, he wouldn’t be able to leave. Hardly anyone stirred, actually; but one man stopped him. 

“My Lord,” said another stable hand, an old man with one eye, “I am bound by the Lord and Lady of this castle to show you the way to the Green Chapel.”

Michael sighed. They thought of everything, didn’t they? “Well, you’ll have to tell them when you return.” 

“I will, my Lord.” 

“Just Sir Michael, good sir. I am grateful for your guidance.”

“‘Good!’ It’s been a while since anyone’s called me that,” the old man laughed, seeming to enjoy this as a little joke. Michael waited as he saddled up an old nag of his own to ride, treating her tenderly despite her shabby appearance. Was everyone just _nice_ here? Was taking in strays and treating them well just...part of the magic of the castle? 

The sun crested the horizon as Michael and his guide made it to the gate, to the sleepy porter who let them out. 

And, _God_ , Michael thought, or perhaps prayed (was he _praying_?!) as he led Gringa through the gate, _Let them be well. Let good things come to the Lord of this house, and let his Lady be loved all her life._

He hoped to live to repay them their hospitality. He hoped to return the necklace to Lady DeLuca, whatever she needed it for. And if her necklace protected him, he might actually live long enough to do just that. 

Long enough, maybe, to figure out which one of them, the Lord or the Lady, he was really in love with, or—better yet—figure out _how_ he was going to love both of them. Two _married_ people. 

Jesus, maybe he deserved to get his head chopped off. Maybe the Green Knight took requests?

Commending the house to a God he didn’t strictly believe in, Michael pulled himself into the saddle and rode out at a full gallop in the direction his guide pointed. 

…

The Green Chapel was, in fact, easy to find, perhaps because, now, it wanted to find him. 

The old man helped, of course, but Michael felt he was almost led to the place, by how the huge yucca trees blocked their path or where a bridge was iced over and they had to cross further on. And green sure stuck out, here, against the browns, golds, grays and blues and purples, all covered with a thin sheen of snow. If it was the last landscape he had to see, it was a nice one. 

“Here it is,” the one-eyed old man pointed out, gruffly. “And better you than me.”

Michael laughed, a release of tension. “Seriously?” 

“You should bug out. I ain’t gonna tell. This place may look cute on the outside, but it’s dangerous. The Master of the house here is one mean son of a bitch. Fae, maybe part troll, I dunno. Likes hurting people. Merciless. Hunts peasants for sport, this guy. Lost my eye just for crossing the river right here.” 

Michael gulped, looking again at the ghastly scars on the old man’s face. His hand went to where the necklace was on under his clothes. 

“It’s not too late, kid. I’ll cover for ya.” 

“Thank you, sir, I believe you would,” Michael said. “But I am already coward enough, I think, and I could not live with myself if I refused to face him after giving him my word.”

Never mind that it was under extreme duress and this asshole was a magic fae cheat who liked murdering and maiming peasants, apparently. Maybe with him wearing the necklace, their cheating cancelled each other out. 

“And if there is even a chance I might bring peace to this land, to subdue a recreant neighbor to your Lord and Lady, I would pay for it with my life, gladly,” Michael suggested. 

“Yeah, okay, good luck with that,” the old man said, supremely doubtful. “Well, if you’re bound and determined to get yourself axe-murdered...want me to wait here to drag your body back when he’s done with it?” 

“Er, no,” Michael said. “But if you see Gringa wandering around, take care of her for me?” 

“Want me to take her with me now?” 

“You don’t have, like, _any_ faith I’m going to survive this, do you?” 

The man scratched his chest. “Nope.” 

“Thanks. Commend me to my Lord and Lady, and thank you, again,” Michael said, and put his heels to Gringa’s sides to take him down into the dell where the Chapel rested. 

If the place looked green at a distance, as Michael rode up further the color turned sickly, grown over with a moss that looked partially...radioactive? Like, nothing should be that green, and he wasn’t just saying that as someone from New Mexico. On closer inspection, the chapel wasn’t even a building but a creepy cave carved into the rock in the shape of a church, all wet-smelling and overgrown and horrible. Forget fae, maybe this asshole was a troll. 

A large crack startled him, and then a scraping, shearing sound, as loud as if it were right behind him. Michael jumped, but there was nothing there. He looked around, and then up, and saw a figure on top of the mesa at a grindstone, sharpening a weapon, sparks flying. 

Because of course he was.

“Ho there!” Michael called, because he was _not_ dying today without shouting ‘ho’ at somebody. “I am Sir Guerin of Roswell, and I come seeking the Green Knight according to my sworn oath.”

The man up on the hill laughed, and it was a familiar laugh, booming and scary as shit. Michael forced himself not to jump, though Gringa did not like the sound of the laugh, and she began to dance in agitation as he approached, literally shaking the ground as he walked. Finally, Michael dismounted and released the saddle from her, letting her run until she forgot what she had been scared of. 

He didn’t precisely need a weapon for this, but Michael threw his sword belt on and readied his spear, just so he’d feel dressed. 

The Green Knight was, in contrast, comparatively underdressed from when they had last met: his clothes were still green, but he wore no armor, and for weapon carried only the same huge green axe he had brought into Max’s court. A simple tunic and breeches was all he wore, with bare arms in spite of the chill. His muscles were like cannon balls. Michael consoled himself that the blow would be so quick and clean that he probably wouldn’t feel a thing. 

“Welcome, Sir Michael Guerin of Roswell. You came, as promised! It seems the court of King Max is not so craven as I was led to believe. I look forward to the conclusion of our little game.” 

He seemed almost jolly, and that unsettled Michael, somehow. The words of the one-eyed guide who said this crazy guy took pleasure in killing people echoed in his head. 

“Forgive me, Lord, if ‘game’ is something of a stretch for me, for I cannot simply reattach my limbs, or stop myself from bleeding out with magic,” Michael pointed out, determined that this would be the only mention he would make of this game being so unfairly rigged, or just, _not_ a game to him. 

The Green Knight only laughed. 

“I do not judge you by your heart, for hearts falter. It is only by your actions I judge you: and you present yourself here, so I consider you brave, Sir Guerin,” he rumbled. “For that bravery I will reduce my demands: instead of an arm or leg, I demand you pledge only a hand or foot.”

“Oh. Great.” 

Michael had put a truly sickening amount of thought into this over the past year. He had almost settled on a leg before he had met Sir Alex, where losing a leg looked both very survivable but also very annoying. And frankly, humans were hardier than Antarans, so Michael wasn’t sure he could survive such a blow. The main problem would be bleeding out, and getting his damn horse back long enough to get back to safety and medical care, so that meant it had to be his hand. He could walk. He could elevate a hand enough to stop the bleeding. He might survive, at least, even if the rest of his life would be miserable, no longer able to tinker or invent or plant or—or even _fight_. 

“We are in this valley alone, Sir Guerin, with no knights to witness our exchange or separate us, so we can fight as we wish. It is on your own honor alone that you hazard your body to my axe, as readily as I offered you mine a year ago.” 

“No argument here, man,” Michael said, rolling up his sleeve and extending his arm, like he might to call a hawk to him. “I guess, uh, hit me with your best shot.” 

The Green Knight held the axe against his wrist, and then pulled back. Not his hand, Michael thought, suddenly, he was doing this all wrong, he should be letting this psycho chop off his foot or something, he didn’t want to live the rest of his life like a thief who—

So when the axe-swing came, Michael flinched, hunching his shoulder and pulling his hand back like some kind of absolute wuss. 

The Green Knight laughed. “I _thought_ you couldn’t be Sir Guerin! A knight of true bravery would not flinch at such a test. He would have held to his promise, and rendered an even exchange. Bravery has its limits, I see.” 

If the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck prickled up in fear as several alarming coincidences suggested themselves, these insults also raised his hackles in anger. “Look, asshole. Never mind I was coerced into your sick little game, I’m here. I flinched once, I’m not gonna flinch again.” 

“Indeed,” the Green Knight said, and raised his eyebrow in a way that was very familiar, though Michael didn’t have time to think about why. 

He held out his arm once again, fist clenched, whole arm, whole body held taut. He thought about looking away, but concern for how this monster of a man might judge him for that, too, had Michael staring him right in the eye, watching the axe out of the periphery of his vision as it fell, swift as a hawk. He didn’t flinch but he did blink, and in that blink the axe stopped, hovered an inch from the back of his wrist. 

The Green Knight looked positively gleeful as Michael stood there, struck dumb with rage. 

“I wanted to be sure you found your bravery again. Now that you haven’t flinched we can get on with the main event.” 

“What the _fuck_ , man?” Michael demanded, face going red with anger, whole body shaking. “This some kind of a sick game to you? I’m thinking you’re afraid to hit me, because you know you’re getting your one strike and then I’m coming after you, bitch.” 

Michael drew his sword with his right hand, holding it at the ready. 

The Green Knight laughed. “You’re very right. I do trust your wrath, Sir Guerin, so I will tease you no longer.” 

“Fine,” Michael said, and held out his hand a third time. 

The Green Knight did not tease, this time—or not quite. He swung again, and the axe came down on the back of his hand, but it left only a small gash, not a great gaping wound, or his hand flopping around on the ground like a fish.

Michael roared and jumped back. Blood soaked his hand, but it was manageable, and he threw his helmet on and held up his sword. 

“There, okay! You took your swing, and there it was! That’s all you get! Come at me again, and we’ll tangle,” Michael shouted, thinking that the necklace really had protected him and that he was lucky. He was overjoyed, in fact, and determined not to let this monster finish him off. He was going home, damn it, he was going to go back to Lady Maria and thank her for the necklace, he was going to kiss her and Lord Alex both, and tell them the truth, and—

And the Green Knight wasn’t coming after him. He just smiled, huffed a little, and rested his axe on the ground. “Good Sir, I mean you no harm. I promised you a blow and you took it. I free you from your obligations to me, and I consider my test of King Max’s court passed. At first I was teasing you, not intending to hit you, because of our agreement. You honored it completely.” 

Michael felt a little foolish and sheathed his sword. He also plucked a handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand to stop the bleeding. “Well, okay, then.” 

“The second strike was also a feint, for when my wife kissed you twice and you gave me those kisses back, just as you promised you would.”

Michael looked up sharply. _What the..._

“True men are true to their word, Michael. You failed to keep our agreement in full on the third day, and for that I struck the blow that wounded you. For that is my wife’s necklace you are wearing, which I gave her to shield her mind from Fae visions and fated madness. I know she gave it to you, and I know about the kisses, too, and her wooing of you.” 

The Green Knight took a step towards him, his green hair turning dark and growing short, his green eyes fading brown. He didn’t seem quite so tall anymore...

“She repeated to me your every word so that I fell in love with you, as well. We planned it all, Sir Michael, to test you. And truly, Sir, we agreed you must be the most perfect man ever to walk the Earth, and if you would choose to favor even one of us with a fraction of your love, we would count ourselves blessed. You fell only a little short of total perfection, and not for lust of gold or flesh, but for the love of your own life. I don’t blame you at all for that.” 

The glamour fell away as soon as Michael could see through it, and he recognized Lord Alex Manes, no longer green and huge, but still regal and stern, with flashing dark eyes. 

Because, sure, this might as well happen. 

“Well, fuck me sideways,” Michael said. He definitely would have preferred death or bleeding out to this shitshow of shame. 

“Pardon?” Alex ‘The Green Knight’ Manes said, pretending not to hear him swear. 

“I said—fuck you!” Michael shouted, suddenly angry. His powers erupted, and Michael launched the axe—that was real, no glamour—into a cliffside at the edge of the clearing where it rang out with an angry clang. “Fuck you, fuck your green horse, fuck your wife, and fuck this necklace—” 

Michael scrambled under his shirt until he could pull it off over his head. The chain tangled in his hair, and he ripped out several strands as he threw it on the ground. “There you go, man. You can take that back to your wife with my compliments. Glad to know I passed your little test, or—fuckin’... _tests_. Did you have a bet going on between you two, see who’d get in my pants first, or was that just a side-quest?”

_Teach him to let his guard down._

“Sir Michael,” Alex tried, looking like he was trying not to laugh, but that only made Michael more furious. “You acquitted yourself with honor—”

“No, I fucking didn’t!” Michael protested, unable to accept anything nice. “I was ready to cold-bang both of you _before_ I got the other’s consent. And all that’s before I lied to your face and took something that keeps Maria from fucking dying, apparently, without any thought of how I’d get it back to her. I’m returning to Roswell in disgrace.”

At least Alex stopped laughing now. 

“We had heard...that you valued your life very little,” Alex ventured, stepping forward, but he only stooped to pick up the necklace, bending slightly awkwardly. Michael resolutely did not pity him, or even care, that at least his wooden leg was real. “Please don’t value it the less now. We were told that you would have been glad to lose your life in this venture, but that you took the necklace in the hope of surviving your quest after meeting my wife and I gave us such joy. We thanked God and you, Sir Guerin, that you measured yourself at least half as much as we esteem and love you.”

“And _that’s_ another thing,” Michael raged. “What the fuck do you know about me? Who told you all this shit about me? How do you even know my name to want to play mind games with me?” 

Alex looked to one side. “Maybe you had better return with me to my castle, Sir Guerin, and all will be explained. Come, please, be reconciled with my wife, whom you thought was trying to seduce you wickedly.”

“No, thanks. I’ve stayed long enough,” Michael groused, still in a high temper. “You could give me your real name, though. Even if I might not believe it.” 

“It is Alex Manes. I even am a Lord.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “Was this magic your doing?” 

“I’m not a warlock,” Alex chuckled. “All this was under the execution of one of your own, Sir Michael. The test was more the pretense, as it was through the power of Lady Isobel and Lady Rosa that I was disguised to coax you from Roswell. Both ladies spoke to us of your high nobility—”

“ _Isobel and Rosa_?!” Michael yelped, feeling violent again. He was at least allowed to hurt his sister: that was just fair sibling rules. “When I see her again, I’m gonna—”

“She waits at my castle, Sir Guerin,” Alex said. “Both of them, though their disguises will not hold for much longer, either, I suppose. You’ll see through the illusion now.” 

“The old women,” Michael seethed, starting to walk away. “I’m still gonna kill her.” 

“I wish you luck with that,” Alex smirked, and then walked after him, continuing. “We met in a diplomatic capacity. She thought we might—that we should meet.” 

“She thought I’d be the meat in your arranged marriage sandwich, huh?” Michael scowled. 

“I love my wife, Sir Guerin.” Alex stopped following him, eyes flashing. That had struck a nerve, apparently. “You’ll have to ask Isobel yourself why she decided on the elaborate illusions in favor of just a blind date. I don’t make it a habit of saying no to the sister of the king of the realm.” 

Michael sighed, and stopped. This was definitely Isobel’s M.O., and maybe Rosa’s, too, she was chaotic enough. And they were hard to say no to. Maybe he shouldn’t blame Alex or Maria. 

“I don’t expect you to believe me, but we meant every word of love spoken between us,” Alex said, like a goodbye. “I will treasure your kisses as long as I live, and wonder forever what they taste like outside of any obligation. You are indeed just as noble as your sisters told us you were.”

Michael turned around, deflated. 

“No, I’m really not. I _want_ to be good for somebody. And just when I thought I had it good with you, that I was good for you, I fucked it up.”

“Valuing your life isn’t fucking up,” Alex said sternly. 

“But over Maria’s life?” Michael snapped. “Over our agreement? My honor? Your marriage? Don’t forget, on top of that, at the end, I was a coward.” He held up his bandaged hand as evidence. 

He wouldn’t be argued with, so Alex sighed and held out the necklace. “I know Maria wants to see you again. But...if you won’t return with me, we were hoping you would take this.”

Michael recoiled. “Maria—”

Alex assured him, “We can have another made to protect her, don’t worry. Take this as...something to remember us by. A love-token, if you wish to think of it so.” 

Michael laughed bitterly. “If I took it, it would only be a reminder of how I failed you.” 

“Better than nothing, I guess,” Alex said, and offered the necklace again. 

“And it will help me win a fight against my sister,” Michael added.

“Again, good luck with that.” Alex smirked a little. 

Michael smiled, and took the necklace. He hooked it around his belt. 

“You are always welcome in our castle, Sir Guerin. We can try again, on our own terms,” Alex offered, knowing Michael probably wouldn’t take him up on it.

Michael nodded to let him know he heard, but then shook his head. “It’s not our time now.” 

Alex nodded, his face shutting down before he turned away, hiking back to retrieve his axe. “Come again in late summer, then. That’s when Maria starts her ciders.” 

Michael huffed. “Yeah, okay,” he said, not really meaning it.

_Honi soit qui mal y pense._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End
> 
> JK! LOL like I was gonna end it at that. Here's where we depart from _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ and play with some other medieval romance tropes to try to get these nerds to fuck.
> 
>  _Honi soit qui mal y pense_ , the inscription at the end of the manuscript of SGGK and the motto for the Order of the Garter, pretty neatly sums up my feelings about Malexa. 😉


	5. Fitt 5

Michael didn’t speak to Isobel or Rosa for a full month when he returned, not at least until after the celebrations of his triumphant return died down. 

Because of course it had been a public relations ploy, she admitted to a private council upon his return. Her reasons were all good and logical and so very Isobel: get a victory for the Antarans of Roswell, specifically Michael, who didn’t have much of a role now that the War was over. Get Michael out of the house, a desire all sisters have for their brothers. As an added perk, orchestrate a little meet-cute between her bisexual brother and an attractive couple who could both have an equal shot at him. 

And it had worked, on the macro-level at least, so he couldn’t even really blame her. 

But it was mortifying that the people of Roswell treated Michael as a hero, when in fact he had actually so spectacularly failed a test that didn’t even _matter_ . He wore the necklace like an albatross, but it just turned into the latest fashion in the court. Everyone wore a gold chain in honor of his victory and to honor him—even worse, when he tried to tell everyone _he_ wore it as a mark of shame, that only made him look humble and fanned the flames of admiration even higher.

At least it meant they ignored the band he wore around his hand to hide the scar. 

…

“Look, I didn’t think you’d jump straight to the _ménage à trois_ option, Michael! Not that there’s anything wrong with that! _I_ didn’t know you were such a prude! Look, they’re both ‘married but looking’ and you’re honestly the most eligible bachelor I know, and you might have been happy with either one! You should be flattered I thought of you!” 

When Michael did start speaking to Isobel and Rosa, of course, at first it was only to argue with them. Or, rather, with Isobel. Rosa at least seemed to somewhat regret using her magic in the deception, so she didn’t take Isobel’s side in the argument. 

“You want me to be flattered that you took us all for a ride?” Michael demanded. “Toying with my emotions like that—with _their_ emotions?!” 

“What toying? You clearly had no trouble falling in love with both of them, and them with you! At _worst_ I gave you a teensy little scare with an axe. You’ve led _armies_ , Michael, you move things with your _brain_ , you disregard your own safety like it’s your damn job, and yet you’re telling me you couldn’t handle the mere threat of limb loss?” 

“You wanted to teach me to _care_ about my life so you made me _fear_ for it? That’s fucked up, Isobel.” 

“Oh, now you’re just manufacturing things to be angry about!” she huffed, arms folded. 

Michael really did throw something at her that time. A goblet hit the wall by her head, even though he hadn’t moved. 

“Michael! Don’t TK things at me!” she yelped, stamping her foot. “I’m not ashamed of what I did.” 

“Well, I am,” Michael said. 

A book grazed her hip that time. Michael wasn’t even looking at her, he was so angry, so she couldn’t tell if he was missing on purpose or by accident. 

“Izzy, we’re going,” Rosa said, grabbing her arm. “Be glad that wasn’t a bestiary.” 

“I came here to _apologize_ to him, Rosa.” 

Rosa barely blocked the chair that sailed directly at their heads with her magic, sending it crashing violently against the wall as Michael tore his room apart to throw it at them. 

“Yeah. Good job,” Rosa told her, and dragged her out. 

Only when he knew he was alone, and had thrown everything he owned against the door, did Michael pull the necklace out and let himself burst into tears. 

…

Time passed. Michael started talking to Rosa again, almost normally. Eventually he even started speaking to Isobel again, though he still obviously held a grudge—but she held a grudge against him holding a grudge, so it worked out fairly. 

He helped Liz with her experiments, but was rather listless himself, with no new ideas for projects or inventions. There wasn’t even a border dispute to keep him busy, since news of General Guerin’s matchless bravery against the Fae Green Knight had spread far and wide. 

He tried a few quests, but his heart wasn’t in them. The hunt for the Questing Beast just made him think of Alex too much, the Holy Grail quest sent him into too many churches that reminded him of the Green Chapel, and anything with a Perilous Bed involved was tame after he had turned down Maria DeLuca in a négligé three fucking times. 

God, what was wrong with him? 

...

“We want you to do what makes you happy,” Liz told him, and Max nodded in support. “You’re clearly miserable trying to forget them.” 

“We could invite them here,” Max suggested. “They wouldn’t refuse an invitation to court.” 

“I don’t want to force them to come here,” Michael said, the first thing he had said since this conversation started, since Max and Liz had cornered him in the gardens—the only place that made him vaguely happy, especially since he’d recently wrecked his own lab in a fit of rage and hadn’t felt like putting it back together yet. “That’s no better than what happened last time.” 

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Max said. “I just want you to know how much I love you, and need you. Not the nebulous fear of General Guerin, like Isobel thinks protects us, but actually you, your brain, your powers.” 

Michael looked up at him at that, his eyes shining. It wasn’t that Max wasn’t free with praise and appreciation, but Michael rarely felt so low as to listen. 

“But I don’t need you _here_ all the time, Michael. I think I might have been holding you back without meaning to. It’s okay if you leave Roswell. I want you to leave. I just want you to come back sometimes, you know?” 

Michael knew that Isobel and Rosa had acted alone, and Max and Liz had had nothing to do with the Green Knight fiasco. So he wasn’t mad at them any more than he was generally mad at the world and himself. Liz at least didn’t judge him for his anger. ‘Anger reminds us something's not right,’ she even told him, right after he had wrecked his lab, ‘and then we change it.’ 

…

Michael left without telling anyone where he was going. 

This wasn’t strictly true: he warned Liz at least that he was leaving, but she was under a solemn pinky promise to not tell Isobel under any circumstances, and to only tell Max in a life or death emergency. Only after all these promises were exacted from her did he admit to Liz where he at least thought he might be going, if he didn’t chicken out. 

“Apple festival?” Liz smiled. “Sounds like they’re trying to lure you there in particular.” 

“Let’s...hope so, I guess.” 

He went in disguise, bullying Rosa into making him look different while neither telling her where he was going, permitting her to ask why he needed the disguise, nor letting her tell her wife what she had done. Her illusions had improved—possibly due to all the practice in the past year—and she made him look just different enough to recall Sir Guerin, but definitely not be him: taller, broader, darker, and way hotter. He actually thought he looked vaguely like Max, now, which was a little weird. 

He carried and wore different livery than his customary dark gules and pentagram, too, changing them out for a nice azure-vert emblazoned with a double-headed eagle. The heraldic change alone might have been enough to let him blend in, a fair unknown. 

He rode Gringa most of the way, but lodged her in an opulent and expensive stable in El Paso, and borrowed a different horse to ride in on the rest of the way. He didn’t trust the one-eyed stablehand not to remember Gringa. No, he wanted his identity to be perfectly disguised. Not as a form of payback, but as a kind of clean slate. 

At least, that was what he kept telling himself. 

This time, the castle was teeming with people—more so even than the Christmas market, apple season brought in merchants, farmers, peasants, and nobles from all around. Michael was in heaven. There were apples everywhere, in every form! Dipped in caramel, dipped in chocolate, made into pies, fresh, frozen, pureed, pressed, baked, served with sharp cheddar or sauteed with sausage and onions. Michael was nearly in a sugar coma by the time he made it through one pass, and he was so delirious he could almost completely forgive Alex and Maria on the spot. 

So he lodged his rented horse and went back through the row of stalls, buying and munching even more the second time around. 

This was enough time for a herald to approach him—it was just the porter from last time, but in a fancier hat—with a low bow. “My Lord, are you here for the tournament or the delicacies? Either way, my Lord Manes and Lady DeLuca would house a knight of your stature in their own castle, if you will be staying any time?”

“I think I will be staying, sirrah, but, really, I don’t mind getting a room at the inn—” 

“I’m afraid those will all be booked up, already, My Lord…?”

“Just ‘Sir,’” Michael said, and realized in a panic that he hadn’t come up with a fake name yet. “Sir Gauvain. Of... _Paris_...Texas? I thank the Lord and Lady for their hospitality, then, and I gladly accept.”

“Will you be entering the tournaments, Lord?” 

“Oh. Oh, yes. Definitely.” 

The tournaments were key. There were several side-events, and at one time Michael might have run himself ragged to compete in all of them just to _feel_ something, but this time Michael was on a mission. The two main events were being held tomorrow: the archery competition first and the jousting competition next, and Michael put his name down for both. 

He was a reasonably good archer, and he had been practicing jousting (Kyle had actually proven himself to be a pal with this), but more than that, Michael had incentive to win both. 

The prize for the best archer of the tournament was a kiss from Alex, and the prize for the joust was a kiss from Maria. 

Oh, there was money, too, probably, but if he won he’d be dropping the coins off with the poorest family he could find (as was usually expected of the nobility at these things). Michael didn’t care about the money. The kisses were what he was after. 

…

The night before the tournament, a ball was held in the great hall, and it panged Michael’s heart just to be here again, remembering the drinks, the feasts, the flirting, the open exchange of “winnings” that included kissing Alex. He needn’t have bothered with the disguise, as it turned out, as those in attendance wore or were given to wear masks in a variety of brilliant colors. 

Michael hung out against the wall, ignoring all offers to dance, both trying to see but avoid being seen by the Lord and Lady of the manor. 

With or without masks, he would know them anywhere, of course. They wore fine clothing cut from matching cloth: a deep purple that wasn’t quite the same color as Sir Guerin’s heraldry, but wasn’t _not_ that, either, like time and changing fashions had shifted the hue from half a year ago in their memory. The Lady DeLuca wore a new necklace, this one with a heavier, more intricately wrought chain, and if she seemed a little unsteady on her feet, it was not from poor health but obviously from the cider, which flowed freely. He smiled as he watched her twirl, dancing to the lively music with many lovely ladies-in-waiting, and many handsome courtiers. Lord Manes did not dance, but he sat by the fire, eyes and cheeks shining as he let beautiful men and women boast to him of the prowess he would see in the archery contest tomorrow. One knight in particular, whose turnic was almost as green as the Green Knight’s had been, handsome if not all that tall, hung on his every word, and Michael hated him instantly. 

Michael longed to approach either or both of them, but didn’t quite trust himself not to give himself away, or fall at their feet with a love declaration or something embarrassing. So he tasted cider and ate pork chops and applesauce to his heart’s content until the evening wound down. 

Nodding once at Lord Alex as he walked the pain out of his bad leg was nearly going to be the highlight of his evening before Lady DeLuca practically fell on him. 

“Ooh, aren’t you polite, strong, and handsome?” she giggled as he set her back on her feet, and for the first time he wondered if she had imbibed a strictly _healthy_ amount of cider, she was so unsteady, but he just guided her back onto the dance floor where her ladies took care of her and he didn’t see her again. Her perfume lingered, however, and he sighed, recalling their bower conversations. Meanwhile, Lord Manes slipped away with the knight in the green tunic and Michael tried not to combust with jealousy. 

After midnight he was shown to a tiny closet, opulently appointed for its small size, but that was what he got for arriving late, honestly. Michael vaguely wondered if someone would be getting lucky in the VIP guest bedroom the next morning, or if he had been special—and then he felt bad for thinking that.

He was the one who had left, after all. 

…

The archery tournament took the better part of the morning, with delicacies and delights in between each round of elimination. Michael couldn’t decide if it was better or worse that the Lord and Lady of the castle were flirting with completely new companions this afternoon. 

After he landed a shot that would get him to the next round uncontested, a goblet of cider was brought to him. 

“From my Lady DeLuca, with her special compliments,” the servant said, bowing low. When Michael raised his glass to her, she smiled invitingly and touched the seat next to her. “She would be delighted by your company before the next round, My Lord.” 

“Tell her thank you—” Michael began. He knew if the disguise and his nerve was going to hold he had to keep his distance, so he meant to refuse, but he _had to know_. “I will.” 

“My Lord Gauvain of Paris, milady,” the servant announced. 

“You are welcome, Sir Gauvain. Please, sit.” 

Michael sat beside her, laying his bow across his knees. She glanced at it and him sidelong, sizing it and him up, and then teased, “ _Really_ , Sir, there are ladies present.” 

“Milady?”

“Your _bow_.” This was an opening salvo, but Michael knew how she liked to play. The Lady liked a bit of fencing, while her husband favored the more straightforward approach. Michael cleared his throat.

“I am afraid this _is_ just a bow in my pocket, my Lady, but I am also happy to see you,” Michael tried. 

“Mm,” she said, disappointed. “Low-hanging fruit. Is that bow made of yew?” 

“It is. All the better to pluck yew with.” 

This time, Maria giggled. “Better. But I hand-fed you that line.” 

“I’d throw the whole match just to sit here and let you hand-feed me anything you like.” 

“Oh, you are very bad. You can sit next to me as long as you like,” Maria said, now sounding very pleased. “Tell me, where did you learn to shoot like that? My husband is already impressed with you I think. He doesn’t impress easily.” 

Together they looked to where Alex had moved up close, leaning against the rails and pacing up and down to judge the targets and critique the form of the archers with his knights and soldiers. Michael still remembered the feeling of all that focused intensity. Alex was surrounded still by a gaggle of handsome men, but Michael wasn’t worried: he was going to have the prize tonight. 

“I should hope so. I’m looking forward to exchanging a kiss with him.” 

Maria grumbled at that. “Hmm. So you won’t save yourself for this afternoon’s games.” 

Michael leaned in closely. “My Lady, I promise you, there is enough of me to go around. I boast that by the end of the day you will each owe me a kiss.” 

If she went to laugh at that at first, Maria stopped and gave him a queer look. Michael feared she had seen through his disguise, but she looked far-off, and clutched her necklace. 

“Milady?” 

“I’m sorry, Sir Gauvain. I—of course I do not doubt your capacity for love. Excuse me—” 

When she stood, looking almost pale, Michael stood along with her, but she left the field with her handmaidens. Michael wanted to go after her, but the herald called his name, and he went up to take his shot. 

“Give it a minute,” a voice called as he readied his shot, and he realized that it was Alex speaking directly to him. But Sir Alex only pointed up at the flags. “Wind.” 

“A true archer knows how to account for the wind, my Lord. But you know that,” Michael said, pulling the bow back and adjusting his angle slightly into the breeze. 

“Maybe once upon a time I did,” Alex said. “This is helping me to recall why I loved a pastime I had recently given up.” 

Michael felt a little ill. What, Alex didn’t hunt anymore? Didn’t shoot? He released the tension on his bow and turned. “My Lord?” 

Alex seemed surprised by Michael’s reaction, perhaps a little suspicious of it. “Oh, nothing serious, Sir Gauvain. Your form is very good, and you’re a very good shot.” 

“I do tend to hit the mark I’m aiming for.” 

Michael let the arrow fly, and only had to nudge it with his powers a _little_ bit, and only because Alex was so close that it threw him off a little. 

The crowd cheered. 

“Another bullseye!” Alex declared. “Sir Gauvain, you won’t have to shoot again until the final round. Walk with me.” 

Michael gulped at the sense of _deja vu_. “My Lord, I would not dare impose upon your—”

“Come, I insist. I usually like to get to know a person before I kiss them.” Alex smiled, inviting Michael to lean against the rail with him and lowering his voice. “Not being perfectly honest hasn’t worked out for me in the past.” 

Now Michael felt even more guilty, but if he thought for a moment that the jig was up and Alex had seen through his disguise, now, too, he was proven wrong. 

“So why don’t you tell me about yourself, Sir Gauvain?” Alex said, as they began to walk, keeping out of earshot of others. 

“Oh, I—I’m no one special,” Michael said, because of course he hadn’t come up with a fake backstory at all. Better stick with the truth, just keep it vague: “I, uh, well. Grew up an orphan most of my life. Came into nobility late in life, long-lost princeling thing. A story for another time, maybe.” 

Alex nodded, solemn. “How did you live? Raised by wolves, perhaps?” 

Michael chuckled. “A series of foster-homes. Lived in Rome for a little while, actually, so raised by wolves, that’s funny. Rome, Georgia, I mean. Um. Was homeless briefly. But I could fight, so I wasn’t without work, as long as I could find a sword and stay off the drink long enough…” Michael blinked, wondering why he was saying all this. _Yeah, way to impress, Michael,_ he told himself. _Trashy highlights from your dark and storied past, only._ “Uh, sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to hear all that.” 

Alex was gazing at him with something that wasn’t quite pity but not entirely desirous, either, like he was holding himself back from both. “My father believed that adversity builds character. So though I grew up noble he liked to make life...adverse for me. I think whether a person has a strong character or not, there is nothing adversity can do to improve on it. All my father taught me was ruthlessness. Any goodness or gentleness or nobility I learned, I learned from my best friend.”

“Maria,” Michael filled in, forgetting himself. “I mean, the Lady DeLuca. Your best friend?” 

Alex smiled. “She’d be thrilled to find you so familiar, Sir Gauvain. Yes, the Lady DeLuca. The person I love most in this world—though our marriage is a chaste one, you might as well know.” 

“Not for reasons of religious enthusiasm, I take it,” Michael dared to say with a wry little smile. “Saving yourself to be ravished by the Holy Spirit?”

“ _No_.” Alex actually laughed. “Tell me, have we met before, Sir Gauvain? Perhaps on campaign in the Antaran wars? I knew plenty of mercenaries...” 

Michael answered with a wistful smile. “I think I would remember you, Lord Manes.” 

…

The archery tourney thus in the bag, after a brief luncheon, Michael immediately readied himself for the joust. This was a less popular sport, and the pool of contestants was smaller: not everyone wanted to hazard their body, their horse, and the craftsmanship of their armor for a kiss, even from the Lady DeLuca. A very few knights took part in both contests—though a few bold knights appeared to change their minds and sign up at the last minute for one more chance to beat him. In the end it was a straightforward sweet sixteen bracket, three passes each, instant elimination. 

Michael was beginning to see the appeal of the _bel inconnu_ , of fighting as a fair unknown. No one in their right mind would joust with Sir Michael Guerin of Roswell, General of Antar and brother to the High King—less because they thought they couldn’t beat him and more because of his station, and Michael hated that. Also, he couldn’t use his powers to cheat if people knew who he was. 

All he had to do was train himself to scan the flags for teal instead of deep maroon to know when he was up. He was secretly glad, as well, that he wasn’t subjecting Gringa to this, though she would need to be appeased later. 

As it was with the instant elimination, only three opponents stood between him and the taste of Maria’s lips, and those were quite an incentive. The knight whose livery boasted a vert tree on sable signed up for the jousting tourney late, by all appearances because he was mad at Michael for winning the archery contest and stealing Alex’s kiss. It seemed a lot of trouble for a gay man to go to just to kiss a woman, but maybe he really was mad at Michael. Someone very wisely put them in the opposing seed, so if they faced off against each other it would only be in the last round. Michael finally caught the name Sir Forrest, and saluted him in a friendly manner. They both knew what they were really fighting for. 

Michael bested his first two opponents with only a bit of a bloody lip to show for it. Just enough to get him really raring to go, honestly, get him fired up and ready to grab life by the horns or whatever. Man, maybe all he needed this year was a _fight_. 

He did not get a chance to joust Sir Forrest for Alex’s honor, after all, for a fair man with a bit of a maniacal glint in his eye unhorsed him quite soundly in the first pass. The same man, whose heraldry featured a sable boot on a field of argent—which, Michael was all in favor of the rising middle class except when they were obviously psychos who liked hurting people—nearly killed his next opponent, too, which Michael wouldn’t have paid attention to except that he seemed more violent than was standard for a friendly joust at at freaking apple festival. 

“What the hell happened?” Michael cried, running to the field along with several other knights and healers. 

“Oh, oh now I am sorry about that,” the winner drawled, from atop his horse. “Sometimes ole Jennifer just gets a mind of her own…” 

Michael wasn’t sure if this crazy guy was talking about his horse or his lance, the tip of which had already broken off, leaving it jagged. _Great…_ If Michael didn’t know that the Green Knight had been a fabrication of his sisters’ wildest imaginations, he might have thought this guy had to be related. 

A quick glance up at Lady Maria revealed her talking animatedly with Lord Alex and the master of ceremonies. She clearly wanted the boot knight—Sir Travis, apparently—removed from the Tournament. This would look bad, of course, since she could be seen to favor Michael, and because who would he joust if both of Sir Travis’ opponents were down with injuries. After checking that the knight on the ground was getting the medical attention he needed, Michael climbed the box to speak with the Lord and Lady. 

“You won’t have to fight him, Sir Gauvain, he’s being eliminated for unknightly behavior,” Maria told him before he even announced himself. 

“I don’t think he’s strictly a knight,” Michael said, offering a shrug.

“Anyway, who will he fight for his last opponent? Sir Forrest is injured and being cared for by his family— _there’s_ a lawsuit I’m not interested in dealing with...” Alex said, pinching his brow as though with a headache. “I think Lady Cameron could go again…” 

“Don’t disqualify him. Guy like that needs to be taught a lesson. I’m happy to do it,” Michael offered. At the very least, he could use his powers to unseat him. This whole endeavor obviously wasn’t about playing fair. 

Maria glared at him. “I enjoy a good joust, Sir Gauvain, as long as it stays friendly. I do _not_ enjoy being told what to do in my own home!” 

“Of course, sorry.” Michael raised his hands, backed off, misstepping as he backed down the steps behind him. “I meant no offense, Milady. I only wished to offer my readiness to defeat Sir Travis, should you find no alternative. It is, technically, my bout.”

Alex and Maria looked at each other. 

“I’m not letting that psycho kiss you,” Alex told her. 

“Don’t get proprietary. _I’m_ not letting him kiss me!” Maria said. “I want to disqualify him.” 

Then they both looked at Michael, and Michael felt warm under their combined stare. 

“If you let him injure you, Sir Gauvain, I hope you know you won’t be excused from your other obligations,” Maria warned with a wicked smile. Alex fondly rolled his eyes. 

“Even if you have to visit me in bed, my lady, I will be yours at the end of this bout.” 

Maria blushed at that, and Alex coughed. “Seriously, though, he’s dangerous, Sir Gauvain. I’ll make him take a fresh lance, and I’ll let him know in no uncertain terms that I’ll have him flogged and gaoled if he—” 

“My Lord, I’ll take care of him,” Michael said, being so bold as to take Alex’s elbow to try to soothe him, and speaking softly. “I won’t lose you.”

…

The first pass had Michael questioning his ability to handle him, actually. It sent him back in his saddle, nearly off his horse, and Sir Travis scored points breaking his lance to smithereens against his shoulder plate. More pain than usual blossomed across his chest, but no sharp pain, so that was fine. And he stayed on his horse, also good. If he’d been riding Gringa there would have been no close call at all, but the audience got a good gasp out of the whole thing. Alex and Maria were swearing a blue streak and rushing down from their box, but it was a perfectly legal hit, so Michael raised a hand to let them know he was alright. 

Time for Michael to cheat a little. 

He wasn’t going to give Sir Travis a third pass, so with a roar, Michael gave him an almighty push on the next charge with his powers and his lance. With a great shout, Travis toppled backward off his horse, but not before breaking another lance on Michael, and this time Michael did not keep his shoulder back as he ought to have done, and he did feel a sharp pain lodge in his shoulder somewhere. He’d have to get that looked at. 

In the midst of cheers, Sir Travis, still undefeated, apparently, even though he knew just as well as anyone that being unseated in a joust was an automatic loss, launched himself to his feet, drawing a sword as though to continue fighting. “It ain’t fair! It ain’t! He’s Antaran, out to steal my Jennifer!” 

Guards rushed in, but again Michael waved them back. “Whoa, easy, easy, friend,” he said, climbing off his horse, hands raised—which, ow, yeah, definitely something wrong with his shoulder. “I don’t want your horse, man! What the hell?” 

Sir Travis looked around at himself, obviously outnumbered, a little cagey. “You ain’t after my Jennifer?” 

“No, no, no. I don’t need her. Yield now and you can keep her,” Michael said, putting a hand against his shoulder like he was pledging a vow, though he was also checking for blood. This guy needed, like, serious help.

Knights stormed the field to separate them, but Sir Travis had sheathed his sword by then. Michael turned to smile up at the box where Alex and Maria were, only to find them already running towards him. 

“Healer! We need a healer here, damn it,” Alex barked. “Get that man and his horse off the field.” 

Maria rushed right to him, surprising him with a kiss, right there on the field. 

It was a surprise for them both, of course, as he immediately began to transform back into himself—or, rather, as Maria gained the ability to see through the glamour. Maria gasped, clutching her necklace, and Michael kissed her again. 

If onlookers gasped at the first kiss, they were scandalized by the second kiss, at the way he cupped her face and kissed her hard, desperate, without asking leave. 

Maria pulled away roughly, mouth open in shock. 

“I’m sorry, I just need some quiet,” he said, biting his lip in concern that she might punch him, knee him in the balls, say his true name, or, perhaps worse, kiss him again. “Can I talk to you and your husband—alone?” 

“Sir Gauvain, you’re bleeding,” Alex hissed. A healer stepped in to start unfastening his armor. 

“Give us leave alone!” Maria demanded suddenly, sharply. “Clear my tent! Alex!” 

And if she dragged Michael off forcibly by his gorget he wasn’t about to complain. 

“Maria, I don’t understand—” Alex demanded, following them into the tent where Maria all but threw Michael down onto a low bench. Alex cried out in surprise. “Maria!” 

“You son of a bitch,” Maria said. “You bastard.” 

“My Lady—” Michael began. 

“ _Maria—_ ” Alex protested. 

She wheeled on Alex, who for all his intimate knowledge of her moods and personality, couldn’t read her. “Kiss him. Right now.” 

“What?” Alex stared back and forth between his wife and Sir Gauvain, eyebrows in his hairline. 

“Kiss him.”

Michael moved back on the bed. “I’m beginning to think I should explain something first…” 

Now Alex looked down at Maria’s hand around her necklace, and turned sharply back to Michael. Taking his jaw in one rough hand, Alex kissed him, and Michael really did wish he had more to put into this one kiss. Would it be his last? Would they be as angry with his deception as he had been with theirs? 

When Alex pulled back, his breath caught as he found himself looking into Sir Michael Guerin’s eyes. “You fucking bastard. Literally the moment I thought I was over you.” 

“I—I can explain—” Michael said, edging back further, but Maria sat on the other side of him. 

“You’re hurt,” she said, voice rough with angry tears. She began unbuckling his armor, and Alex helped, to get at the wound. “I told you not to let him injure you. You would make us lose you twice?” 

There was a narrow splinter stuck in Michael’s chest, and when it came off with his breastplate a rush of blood followed it. Maria pressed a handkerchief to it, staring at his clavicle and not his eyes, obviously seething. 

“What...are you doing?” Michael asked after a moment, mouth dry. 

“You _fool_ ,” Alex said through gritted teeth. He grabbed him by the hair this time as he kissed him a second time. “We’re going to share him equally, won’t we, my dear?” 

Michael did a double-take, looking back and forth between them. 

“That is, if he wants to stay,” Maria said, her free hand sliding down his thigh to unstrap his cuisses. 

“I came back! Of course I don’t want to leave!” Michael said, voice slightly strangled. 

“Good. Lie back,” Maria ordered. 

“Ah. You want to have me in a more familiar position?” 

“Shut up,” Maria said with a smile. 

“You idiot. To dress your wound,” Alex said, also smiling, relieving Michael of further pieces of armor, uncovering bruises and cuts. Finally pulling the padding aside and his shirt open, he found the wound—and the necklace Maria had given him, worn against his skin. “Ah.” 

“I’m glad you’re still wearing the necklace, otherwise you might have been impaled,” Maria said, kneeling on the bed beside him to wash the wounds and dress them. “Even though I expressly forbade you from getting hurt.” 

Michael gulped, relaxing back on fragrant pillows, mind dizzy and overwhelmed with—everything. “I’m sorry for disobeying you, milady. It won’t happen again.” 

“Good.” 

Pulling Michael’s gloves off, Alex discovered the scar on the back of Michael’s hand and kissed it. He grinned playfully up at Maria. “May I try kissing him like this?” 

“Be my guest,” Maria said, anointing the wound with a herbal concoction to stop the bleeding and relieve the pain. She glanced sidelong down at Michael, who was quietly freaking out. “It’s okay.” 

“We talked often of what we’d do if we had you in our bed,” Alex said softly, leaning over Michael and tracing his lips with his fingers. Michael followed his fingertips, open-mouthed. The sight of it made Alex’s pulse jump. 

“You...talked about me?” 

“Of course we did,” Maria said. She viciously applied a stinging alcohol to a cut higher up on his shoulder, making him hiss. “Talked about sharing you, trading you back and forth, how we’d have to keep track of how many kisses each of us gave you so the other would know how many we owed you.”

“And other things,” Alex suggested with a grin. 

Michael swallowed, feeling faint just trying to imagine that. 

“And then you march in here and make us fall in love with what we thought was someone else,” Maria said, jabbing him in an uninjured part of his chest with a finger. She looked at Alex. “I suppose we could still form a harem.” 

“Plenty of me to go around!” Michael squeaked. A bit of a double-standard, really, that he wanted to love both of them, but didn’t want them to take other lovers? “I mean, give me a chance. I’ll do anything.”

“Staying would be a nice start,” Alex said, and when he kissed him this time, it was because they both wanted him to. 

* * *

## EPILOGUE

Gringa was happy to see Michael when he showed up, and even happier to see the gift of apples he brought her. No one was happier than Michael’s rented horse, however, who was glad to see her stable and her fresh hay and not be subjected to surprise jousts that were not covered by her warranty. 

“You didn’t have to come all this way with me,” Michael said to Maria, who was petting Gringa’s nose and feeding her another apple as he came around the other side. 

“We had to be sure you wouldn’t run off again,” Alex said, leaning against the stable wall. 

“Had to be here to bribe the horse,” Maria said, scratching Gringa’s ears while she munched happily. “You hear that, Miss Gringa? You take orders from me now.” 

“You keep giving her apples like that, she’d step on my neck if you asked her to,” Michael said. 

“Mm,” Maria hummed. “Stepping on your neck is _my_ job.” 

Michael grinned and bit his lip as she walked past him, tracing her fingers along the gold chain around his neck, now enchanted to never come off unless removed by the Lord or Lady. In spite of this assurance, which Michael agreed to happily, he hadn’t been out of the sight of Lord or Lady for even a moment in the past two weeks, through the end of the Apple Festival and until he was healed well enough to ride. 

They had put him through enough athletic feats to be absolutely sure. 

“So do we want to ride back tonight? We can make it back by nightfall if we leave now.” 

“Hmm, you’re not too sore from riding all day?” Alex asked. 

“I mean, _I am_ , but that has nothing to do with how long we’ve been riding,” Michael replied, licking the inside of his mouth lewdly. 

Michael had been walking on air ever since it had finally sunk in, after the tournament, that they both wanted him like he wanted them. He didn't realize Alex and Maria were the only ones who could be insecure until he admitted he had been worried, too. 

“I can send word to my family from here, so they know where I am and don’t come calling,” he suggested. 

“ _Your_ family? Not come calling?” Maria laughed, pulling herself up onto her own steed, a huge ginger stallion with a surprisingly gentle gait. 

“You’re right. I’ll let ‘em sweat for a few more weeks,” Michael said, tightening the saddle. 

“If you want them to sweat, I can still send a ransom note,” Alex suggested, mounting his own palfrey. “Enclose a lock of your hair—”

“Don’t you dare, Lord Manes,” Maria said, letting her charger bully Alex’s horse on their way out of the stable gates and onto the main road. “You leave his hair alone. You could, however, suggest that we’re keeping him cruelly chained up. That’s at least partially true.” 

“You set a trap and I am fairly caught,” Michael replied with a shrug. “That’s definitely true. Been true since day one. Only don’t tell my sister that. Ever.” 

Alex chuckled softly. “Perhaps we could let the rumor mill in our own court die down before we send any kind of word anywhere.” 

“The priests should be _happy_ ,” Maria pointed out, whining vaguely, “at least we’re sharing a bed now.” 

Michael snorted loud enough to startle Gringa, which made Maria and Alex laugh. “Somehow, I don’t think _sharing a paramour_ was what they had in mind.” 

“Oh, all the fashionable Lords take mistresses nowadays,” Alex waved a hand. “We just hold a very avant-garde court.” 

“Now you’re really overselling it,” Michael laughed, blushing. "I'd make an ugly mistress, for one thing."

“Hardly,” Maria said. “And it’s politically unsafe to share a bed with too many people. This arrangement is ideal, really. Just scandalous enough to be fashionable, but utterly unleverageable. Not to mention economical!”

Michael guffawed, but Alex just looked very pleased, even proud. “A two-for-one paramour. What a catch. He’s handsome, and a General, and the King’s brother. Clever. Good with his hands.” 

“Oh, very good with his hands. And such poetry. The stories were right about you, after all, Sir Guerin. A good knight in service to ladies, and a knight’s knight, too.”

“The claims to poetry were a bit exaggerated, I think,” Alex suggested. 

Maria frowned. “You know, you’re right. Witty, but not poetic.” 

“Just misconstrued,” Michael said, lifting a finger in his defense. “I _do_ have a clever tongue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter a few people asked about the “Honi soit qui mal y pense,” which means roughly, “Shame on him who thinks evil (of this).” It’s a phrase that’s jotted at the end of the manuscript of _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ and is the motto of the Order of the Garter. 
> 
> “The popular tale goes that Edward picked up from the floor a garter that had loosened and dropped from the leg of the queen, or of his mistress, as sometimes happens. Some of his nobles saw this and made a joke at his expense, and he told them it would soon come to pass that such a garter would be held in the highest honor by them. Then not much later he founded this order and gave it this title to attest that his nobles had not judged him rightly.” (Polydore Vergil, _Anglica Historia_ XIX.24)
> 
> With this story, and even with the story of _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ as a backdrop, the motto becomes about overturning erotic shame into something to be proud of, almost ‘let your freak flag fly.' Medieval romances are full of knights performing shameful acts for love: Lancelot rides in a prisoner’s cart to rescue Guinevere, and a modern example is in _A Knight’s Tale_ where Jocelyn asks William to lose the joust to prove he loves her. 
> 
> All this is to say, honi soit qui mal y pense remains my attitude about Malexa 😂💖

**Author's Note:**

> Link with art can be found on my [Tumblr](https://maeglinthebold.tumblr.com/post/626170499722084352/maeglinthebold-maeglinthebold).


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